


The Little Green Men Affair

by AconitumNapellus



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AconitumNapellus/pseuds/AconitumNapellus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Visiting the past for cultural research, Kirk and Spock beam down for some innocent surveillance. They didn't plan on beaming into the centre of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York - and Napoleon Solo didn't plan on finding an alien in the washroom, either!<br/>(This story was 15 years between start and finish. Apologies for inconsistencies, poor editing, or general problems.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I: But What About the Ears? 1.

1.

 

Napoleon Solo stepped out of a cubicle in the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters’ washroom and crossed to the basins with a carefree tread. He washed his hands, then began to straighten his tie and smooth down his hair in the mirror. The circuitous route he planned back to his small office from the washroom would take him through the weaponry archive, and he had set his sights on the cute secretary there as a target to be his date this weekend. But as he stood there primping, a strange prickling sensation tickled his skin, accompanied by a faint humming in his ears.

‘Thrush weapons don’t usually reach this far inside,’ he muttered very quietly to his reflection.

He slipped his hand inside his jacket until his hand was resting comfortingly on the butt of his revolver. He stood very still, watching the toilet doors behind him in the mirror. Two of the doors opened, almost simultaneously, and two men in dapper civilian clothing stepped out into the small room. They registered his presence, and made as if to move out of the room. Instantly Solo whirled, whipping out his gun.

‘Okay. Hands up. Then freeze.’

One of them looked startled. The other merely raised an eyebrow. Then the two raised their hands very slowly, and froze.

‘What are you doing in here?’

The slightly smaller blond one gave a charming smile. ‘I’m sorry. We must be in the wrong department.’

‘Yes,’ the taller one added in a deep, steady voice. ‘I fear that we lost our way.’

‘You have to be very lost before you end up in here, friend,’ Napoleon said sceptically. ‘This is private property. _Very_ private. Who are you?’ he asked crisply.

The two exchanged glances.

‘I do not believe our names would be familiar to you,’ the tall one said apologetically.

Solo moved the gun closer. ‘You better decide to tell me soon, before you find a neat, round hole in your head.’

The stranger barely reacted to a threat that would have most people babbling more details than he knew what to do with. Napoleon looked a little more closely at this odd, tall man. He looked - different, was the only way he could put it. His face was very pale, almost faintly green, and totally expressionless. His dark eyes were void of emotion, just like his polite voice. Despite his neat business suit his head was covered by a woollen cap that was pulled down over his ears and even over his eyebrows, but Solo could still see that one eyebrow was raised in a way that could only be described as quizzical.

‘A hole?’ the man asked in that level voice. ‘You mean you would actually fire that primitive - ’

‘Spock,’ the blond one said quickly, shaking his head slightly.

‘So that’s your name?’ Solo asked. ‘I don’t remember that in any of the Thrush files.’ He pulled a slim silver pen out of his pocket, and twisted the end. His eyes never left the two strangers. ‘Open channel D. Illya.’

‘Kuryakin here,’ a Russian accented voice filtered through the pen. Again, the strangers did not react to something most people would see as quite astonishing.

‘Illya, you better get down here. We’ve got feathered friends in our washroom. And while you’re coming, check the name Spock in Thrush files. How do you spell that?’ he said aside to the tall one.

‘S-p-o-c-k,’ the man obliged, looking faintly amused despite the gun. Or was that just Solo’s imagination? There was not a twitch of a muscle in the man’s face, the only sign of humour being a lightness in the eyes. _He’d be a damned good poker player_ , Solo thought.

‘Ah, like the baby doctor,’ Solo said irreverently. ‘Are you a doctor, friend?’

‘I am not, as yet, your friend. But I do hold a number of doctorates, or the equivalents thereof,’ the man said smoothly, without a hint of pride.

‘A number of doctorates,’ Napoleon muttered under his breath. He raised his voice. ‘S-p-o-c-k. You got that, Illya?’

‘Like the baby doctor. Yes, I heard,’ the dark Russian voice replied.

‘Great.’ He closed the communications device, and pocketed it. ‘Okay,’ Solo said, addressing the two men again. ‘Explain. How did you get in without setting off any of the alarms? We should have been alerted all over the complex as soon as you set one foot over the line.’

‘We flew,’ the shorter one said sarcastically, his eyes narrowing as he looked Napoleon over, as if weighing up the possible outcome of a struggle.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Solo warned them. ‘I’d have the two of you shot through the leg before you could even think of jumping me. Now, I don’t know what you clowns think you’re playing at, but we’re going to find out, one way or another.’

‘Is that a threat?’ the blond one asked lightly. He seemed far too flippant for the seriousness of the situation. Napoleon was looking forward to taking him down a peg or too.

‘It’s a promise. You look like the leader,’ Solo hazarded.

The man folded his arms across his chest – a seemingly casual action that gave away that he was, perhaps, feeling threatened despite his relaxed demeanour. ‘Maybe.’

‘Name?’

‘You’ve already got Spock’s for free. You’ll have to earn my name,’ he said smugly.

‘Would you like to tell me why you’re here?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Thank you very much for asking,’ the tall one added, and again Solo did a double-take, wondering if the man meant humour and then deciding it was impossible.

At that moment the door opened, and a slim blond man walked in briskly, already with his gun out of its holster.

‘Well, Illya?’ Napoleon asked him.

‘Yes, there is a Spock in Thrush.’ Kuryakin looked the two men over quickly. ‘But that one’s a foot shorter than these two, with long blond hair. The first name is Valerie.’ He smiled very briefly – a smile so swift that after the fact it was hard to be sure if it had really happened. ‘Looked like your type, too.’ Then he regarded the men, and looked puzzled. ‘Napoleon, how did they get in? How did they manage to breach security?’

‘They don’t want to tell us,’ Solo said, keeping his eyes fixed on the two men.

‘Thrush?’

‘Who else?’ Solo shrugged.

‘Mr Waverly won’t be pleased,’ Illya said grimly, shaking his head. ‘No one’s got this far in undetected before. Come on, you two.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Out. And keep your hands away from your bodies. I’d rather not have to shoot you. The corridors have just been cleaned.’

‘Illya is a very good shot,’ Solo added.

The two men exchanged glances, and then, silently, obeyed.

******

Illya watched the prisoners closely as Mr Waverly sat down at the large round table in his office. The captives were already seated in chairs close by. The blond man looked surprisingly relaxed, but he kept his eyes fixed on the strange, small black devices that had been taken from them, that were sitting on the table just out of reach. The taller one named Spock sat bolt upright in his chair, his dark eyes flicking around the room, taking in every detail with a disturbing intensity. Illya would have sworn the man was recording every detail as if he had a photographic memory.

Waverly faced the shorter man with a charming smile.

‘Allow me to introduce myself – I am Alexander Waverly,’ he said in his polite English accent, focussing on the blond intruder, who nodded curtly. ‘It would be courteous of you to tell us your name. It makes it rather easier to talk.’

‘Very well,’ the man nodded, his gaze now shrewd and focussed intently on U.N.C.L.E. New York’s most senior operative. ‘It won’t hurt. I’m sure you won’t find me in any of your records. My name is Kirk. James Kirk.’

Napoleon snorted, exchanging a glance with Kuryakin. ‘Are you sure it’s not Bond, James Bond?’ he asked.

The two men looked totally baffled.

‘Mr Solo, that’s enough,’ Waverly said in a warning tone. ‘Thank you, Mr Kirk.’ His gaze fell on the taller man. ‘Would you like to take your hat off, Mr - ?’

‘Spock,’ the man replied in a flat voice. ‘Thank you. I would rather leave it on.’

‘I suppose that’s not important for now. What is important is how the two of you got in here without setting off any alarms whatsoever. The building should be resounding with alarm bells by now.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not authorised to tell you how we got in,’ the shorter one said, with a smile that was still bordering on smug despite the seriousness of his situation.

Solo came over from the window, and sat down on the edge of the round table. ‘Okay. We’ll try another question. What do you know about Thrush?’

The dark one raised his eyebrow again. It seemed to be the only expression he would allow himself. He opened his mouth as if preparing to read a well-rehearsed speech.

‘The thrush. A small, rather common bird of this planet. The name includes any member of the Turdinae subfamily of songbirds, especially those of the genus Turdus, particularly those species that possess a spotted breast. I can name a number of varieties if you wish. The song thrush, the mistle-thrush, the - ’

‘We’ve heard enough,’ Illya said sharply, moving in closer. ‘We do not have time for jokes.’

‘And you’re not being very funny, either,’ Solo added.

‘I assure you, I was making no attempt at humour,’ Spock replied, fixing Solo with a gaze of the utmost solemnity.

‘Spock, I think you should let me do the talking,’ the blond one broke in quickly.

‘Perhaps our guests are nervous,’ Mr Waverly hazarded, seating himself at the table. ‘Mr Solo, would you pass me that box?’

He waved his hand at a small, rectangular box, crafted very simply but tastefully out of silver. Solo pushed it across the table to him, keeping his eyes curiously on the strangers. Waverly opened the box to reveal a row of pristine white cigarettes, and held it out to the dark one.

‘Would you care for a cigarette?’

Spock picked one of the rolls of paper out of the box and looked at it quizzically, as if he had never seen a cigarette before. He held it to his nose and sniffed it lightly.

‘This contains tobacco?’

‘It’s a cigarette, Spock,’ Kirk said, looking sideways at him. ‘You know. For smoking.’

Spock dropped the cigarette back into the box as if it were on fire.

‘This is a narcotic. A drug,’ he said, incredulity edging his voice for a brief moment. He looked at Waverly. ‘I am afraid I must decline your invitation,’ he said politely. ‘I do not wish to fill my lungs with noxious gases. I intend to live a life free of lung disease, and other drug related illnesses.’

‘We don’t smoke,’ Kirk summed up briefly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Changed your mind?’ Illya asked Spock, noticing that the man had picked up the cigarette again and was sniffing at it delicately.

‘No, I have not changed my mind. There seems to be another scent to this. I cannot quite identify it.’

‘They’re Turkish,’ Kuryakin spoke up quickly. ‘Flown in all the way from – ’

‘No.’ Spock shook his head. ‘This is an additional fragrance. It seems to be familiar to me.’ He glanced at Kirk. ‘These contain a truth drug, Captain. Tribexyanaline, developed during the early nineteen-sixties by – ’

‘All right, Spock,’ Kirk said quickly. He looked at Waverly with narrowed eyes, obviously annoyed at so nearly being tricked. ‘I see.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Solo held up his hand. ‘No one should be able to smell that.’

‘I apologise for having disproved your theory,’ Spock said simply.

‘Very well,’ Waverly said with a brief, tight nod. ‘I don’t like doing this - but since you refuse to co-operate.’ He reached into another box, and took out a syringe. ‘Mr Kuryakin, would you oblige? And please be brief - I find the whole business of drugging our guests most distasteful.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ Kuryakin nodded, putting on a grim enthusiasm for the benefit of his guests. He let a little of the serum fountain through the needle, then waited for Solo to remove the tall one’s jacket, and roll up his shirt sleeve.

‘Spock!’ Kirk began, the worry clear on his face.

‘I do not believe the wound will be large enough, sir,’ Spock said in a reassuring tone, although a hint of concern had crept onto his face.

‘Oh, it’ll be quite large enough for the truth serum to work,’ Kuryakin told him darkly.

Spock and Kirk exchanged quick glances, as if that hadn’t been what was on their minds. Spock didn’t flinch when the needle entered his skin. As the drug hit his system he relaxed a little in his chair, and his eyes clouded. He sat forward again with a jerk, then fell back, blinking and struggling against the drug. His mouth half opened, and he gasped for air. One hand began clutching at nothing, then its wild swings found the table, and gripped onto it.

‘Spock?’ Kirk asked anxiously, leaning forward.

The other men in the room looked at least as anxious as Kirk did at the man’s reaction.

‘I - feel - ’ His voice began to slur. ‘I feel a little nauseous, sir.’

‘It’s not supposed to make you sick,’ Napoleon said in a worried tone. He came round to face the man, asking quickly, ‘Tell me your full name.’

Spock looked even more ill and disorientated when he tried to focus on the man before him, but he forced his mouth to form words.

‘My name is Spock.’

‘Your full name,’ Solo said more insistently. ‘Tell it to me.’

‘I - I do not - think - you would understand the syllables,’ Spock forced out.

‘How did you get in here?’

‘I cannot tell you.’

‘It’s not working,’ Illya put in quietly. ‘He looks awful.’

For the first time some emotion seemed to crack the stranger’s façade. His eyes locked on those of his companion, perhaps with a hint of panic in them.

‘Jim, I can’t breathe...’ he began in a strangled voice, putting a hand uselessly to his throat as if to loosen a too-tight collar.

He gasped for air, wheezing as if his windpipe was collapsing in on itself. His face began to turn a frightening grey-green and he slumped further in his chair, concentrating solely on the vital task of dragging air in.

‘You’ve poisoned him!’ Kirk exclaimed. ‘My God, you’re trying to kill him!’

‘It’s not meant to do that,’ Illya said in puzzlement.

‘Well it _is_  doing that,’ Kirk snapped.

‘Captain,’ Spock wheezed, his eyes locking with Kirk’s. ‘It’s – easing… Only - an adverse reaction to the drug.’

He made an effort to get out of his chair, and stood briefly, before pitching to his knees on the floor, retching. Kirk knelt down by him quickly, putting a hand on his back, looking away as the Vulcan vomited profusely.

‘It must be hostile to Vulcan physiology,’ he muttered very quietly, but Illya heard the whisper.

‘Mr Solo, get a doctor,’ Mr Waverly snapped. ‘Quickly. We don’t want the man to die.’

‘No!’ Spock collapsed back on the floor and leant against the chair, his face blanched and damp with sweat. ‘I will - be perfectly all right - in a moment.’ He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then got to his feet long enough to collapse back into the chair.

‘I will be fine,’ he reassured the anxious U.N.C.L.E. agents. His complexion was fast returning to normal, his breathing steadying. ‘I am ridded of the poison. There is no need for doctors.’

‘Good.’ Napoleon turned to the blond one, harshly ignoring the suffering of the other. ‘So, your friend refers to you as ‘captain’. Captain of what, I wonder?’ When he gained no response, he continued, ‘What else do you want to tell us?’

‘I don’t want to tell you anything,’ he said tautly, keeping his attention on his friend.

‘Illya,’ Napoleon beckoned, pointing at the box that contained the serum.

‘After what happened last time?’ Kuryakin asked doubtfully.

‘He happened to be allergic to it,’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘We know the drug works. We’ve used it hundreds of times.’

‘Go ahead, Mr Kuryakin,’ Waverly nodded, sitting calmly in his chair.

The small Russian took a new syringe, and skilfully injected the drug into Kirk’s arm. The man’s eyes clouded, and he slumped back. The expressionless one was still struggling for composure after his reaction to the drug, but Illya decided he was also beginning to look worried.

‘Does what he might say scare you?’ he asked.

‘The emotion of fear is alien to me,’ Spock said flatly.

‘Yes,’ Illya nodded. ‘I thought it might be.’ He looked at Waverly. ‘Sir, may I ask some questions?’

‘By all means, Mr Kuryakin.’

‘Thank you, sir. Now, Kirk. Captain James Kirk, I presume?’

The man began to look drunk. ‘I am Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise,’ he said semi-automatically, then he grinned, ‘We come in peace.’

Kuryakin flicked a startled glance at Solo. It was unusual for the drug to produce delusions instead of the straight truth. ‘What about your friend?’

The dark one looked even more worried, but made no move.

‘Commander Spock, my First Officer and Science Officer. He’s a very good First Officer and Science Officer. He’s my best friend.’

‘Yes, I’m sure he is.’

‘Commander Spock.’

‘Yes. I’ve got that now. Now, tell me about Thrush.’

‘S’a bird. Tweet, tweet.’

Illya sighed. ‘Mr Kirk, why did you say that your friend’s physiology couldn’t take the truth serum?’

‘It was poisoning him.’

‘Is his physiology different to yours?’

‘Yes. Very different. Bones always says his heart’s where his liver should be. _He’s_ my friend too.’ His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and he leant nearer Kuryakin. ‘I’ll tell you something else as well. His blood’s green – green like the trees...’

‘I’m sure it is,’ Illya said dryly. ‘Mr Kirk, has Thrush found a way to use genetic engineering to create super-humans? A breed of men called Vulcans, who are genetically created to be stronger and more intelligent than the average man?’

Kirk shook his head. ‘Spock doesn’t breed. He’s a Vulcan. He’s got another seven years to – ’

‘Captain,’ Spock broke in, looking more embarrassed than worried now.

‘You’re my best friend, Spock,’ Kirk smiled sweetly.

‘Is your friend one of these super-humans?’ Illya asked.

‘Oh, no, no, no. He’s _super_ -Vulcan.’

‘Do you work for an organisation named Thrush?’

‘I’ve never heard of Thrush.’

Illya sat back, almost defeated. Nothing seemed to be gleaning the expected answers.

‘Let’s try some simple questions,’ he began again. ‘When and where were you born, Mr Kirk?’

‘March 22nd, 2233. Riverside, Iowa, USA, Earth.’

‘Repeat that.’

‘March 22nd, 2233. Riverside, Iowa, U - ‘

‘2233 was the time? You mean half past ten? What year?’

‘The thirty-third year of the twenty-third century, silly,’ Kirk giggled. Spock winced visibly. ‘In the United Federation of Planets. I’m not a Klingon.’

‘Mr Kuryakin,’ Spock said in a level voice. ‘I do not believe it will be necessary for you to continue questioning. I will tell you all that you need to know.’

‘Is that a promise?’ Kuryakin asked darkly.

‘I do not lie.’

‘Okay.’ Kuryakin cracked open a capsule, and held it under Kirk’s nose. He blinked, then opened his eyes wide, coughing.

‘What was that?’ Then he looked around him. ‘Spock, what did I tell them?’

‘You seemed somewhat inebriated. You told them your correct date of birth. I have agreed that we must tell them something of our presence here.’

‘You did right.,’ Kirk nodded, still looking a little spaced out. ‘You may as well take off your hat, Spock.’

The man nodded, and solemnly pulled the woollen hat off his head, revealing two gracefully pointed ears, level with eyebrows that climbed up towards his fringe instead of curving over his eyes.

‘I don’t see the point in making someone look like an overgrown pixie,’ Napoleon muttered. ‘But it must have been good plastic surgery.

Spock raised an offended eyebrow, and Kirk’s eyes narrowed.

‘I don’t think I like you talking about my very good friend like that,’ he muttered, then his face creased as he tried hard to shake off the influence of the drug again.

‘I assure you my ears are my own,’ Spock said firmly.

At that moment, the same hum that Napoleon had heard in the toilets built again, and a figure materialised in a sparkle of gold. He was wearing a fitting blue top and tight black trousers, and looked as if he had appeared from one of the more off the wall jazz venues in Greenwich Village. An alarm whooped on – and was quickly silenced as Waverly calmly touched a button on the round table.

Napoleon stared, trying to work out whether he was going crazy, or whether a man really had just materialised from thin air in the very centre of U.N.C.L.E. Command.

‘Oh, Bones,’ Kirk sighed, pressing his hand over his eyes as if he wished the figure would go away. ‘You do pick the worst times for your medical exams.’

This man was slightly older, his face lined with worry. He started forward, looking about in bewilderment.

‘Where in blazes am I?’ he asked in a rough, angry voice.

‘I think you have rather a lot to explain to us,’ Waverly said seriously.


	2. Act I: But What About the Ears? 2.

2.

 

Alexander Waverly fixed his intent gaze on the face of the supposed Captain James T. Kirk of the starship _Enterprise_. Until a moment ago this whole thing had seemed like either a Thrush stunt or a bizarre joke. Breaking into U.N.C.L.E. headquarters was explainable. An invulnerability to the interrogation serum was explainable. Even the strangely impassive, dark Mr Spock with his oddly shaped ears and upward curving eyebrows was explainable.

An apparently ordinary human being in odd clothing suddenly materialising in the middle of his conference room was not explainable – but if Waverly was fazed by the near-magical appearance, he wasn’t showing it. He had seen many strange things in his seventy-odd years on this earth, and he had found that the best way to react was with a calmness inversely proportional to the strangeness of the event.

James T. Kirk rounded on the newcomer, obvious frustration and suppressed anger on his face.

‘Bones, why did you come?’ he asked quickly. ‘We didn’t call the ship. I specifically ordered – ’

‘Now hang on a moment, Jim,’ the man interrupted, holding up his hands, his gaze flicking rapidly between the varied men assembled in the room. ‘We were monitoring you, and Spock’s readings suddenly took a nosedive. He almost stopped breathing, according to the scanners – then yours went crazy too. But some kind of machinery in here was interfering with the blasted transporter, and Scotty had to adjust it before we could use it.’ He turned to the strange looking one. ‘Spock, are you all right?’

The pointy-eared man nodded silently. Somehow his intense gaze seemed to be equally focussed on everyone in the room, without him appearing to move at all.

‘Your friend reacted rather strongly to a truth serum he was given,’ Waverly supplied.

The man, obviously a doctor, held out a small bleeping instrument, and his eyebrows shot upwards in an expression of incredulity.

‘Of course he did!’ he said angrily. ‘You poisoned him! Near as dammit killed him too! Don’t you know he can’t – ’ He shook his head. ‘What am I thinking? Of course you don’t. Were you sick, Spock?’

‘I did vomit rather profusely, Doctor,’ he nodded. ‘If you will look down, you will find one of your feet in the evidence.’

The doctor glanced at the floor, then quickly jumped aside with a shudder of disgust.

‘Thanks for warning me,’ he said sourly.

‘May I present Dr Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the _Enterprise_ ,’ Spock said smoothly, looking towards Waverly as he gestured suavely at the irascible newcomer.

‘I would say that I’m pleased to meet you, Doctor,’ Waverly nodded. ‘But to be honest, I’m simply baffled by your appearance.’

McCoy favoured him with a grunt of a reply and a brief nod, intent on Spock. He held out the bleeping instrument again, waving it up and down like a high-tech magic wand.

‘Did you have difficulty breathing, Spock?’

‘A little,’ the Vulcan replied with a succinct nod.

‘He was suffocating,’ Kirk said more emotionally than his stoical friend.

‘According to this, it inflamed the tissues of your windpipe, induced violent nausea and vomiting, affected balance and judgement,’ the doctor said, more in the tone of a challenge than a diagnosis. ‘Would you like me to go on?’

‘I am fully aware of what it did to me,’ Spock replied smoothly.

‘Then you also know that it’s only because of your Vulcan reflexes that you’re not dead now.’

‘Reflexes?’ Kirk asked curiously, looking between the doctor and the alien.

The doctor nodded. ‘If any poison enters his bloodstream, his body automatically pumps the affected blood to the surface of his skin, filters the poison out through his pores, and also filters it into his stomach, which rejects it – which is why he was sick.’ He directed a burning glare at Waverly. ‘I presume you were the one who decided to poison him?’

‘I ordered the administration of the drug, yes,’ Waverly said with dignity. ‘But he will not be given any more,’ he promised. ‘We’re not in the habit of poisoning people here. A very undignified way to kill. Underhand.’

Illya waved his gun at the new man, seeming to shake himself out of a disbelieving trance.

‘All right,’ he said darkly. ‘You’ve checked your friend’s all right. Now empty your pockets, sit down, and start explaining to us how you got in here.’

‘Jim, have I ruined things?’ McCoy asked as he cautiously obeyed the Russian’s instructions. He was looking at the gun as if it was a fascinating but deadly museum exhibit.

‘Don’t worry, Bones,’ Kirk said with an air of great tiredness. ‘They were already pretty much ruined before you got here. Spock, can you explain the transporter process to these gentlemen - carefully and simply?’

‘I believe so,’ Spock nodded. He turned to address the bewildered looking men in the room. ‘The transporter is a device that reduces the body to an energy signal, and transmits it to pre-entered co-ordinates, then reassembles the energy into solid matter at its destination. It has been proven to be a safer method of transport than walking.’

‘You already know we’re from the twenty-third century,’ Kirk continued as Spock paused and looked at him. ‘I don’t know if you believe it or not, but it’s the truth. I’m the captain of the starship _Enterprise_. You’ve met my first officer, and this is my chief surgeon, Dr Leonard McCoy. We are here on a survey mission, nothing more. We do not know anything about an organisation called Thrush.’

‘I believe I know a little, sir,’ Spock corrected him. ‘Thrush was a organisation of, may I say slightly foolish, twentieth century scientists and leaders, who believed that they could, and should, dominate the world. Thrush was countered in their attempts by the organisation known as the U.N.C.L.E., or United Network Command for Law Enforcement – a vastly superior organisation, in my opinion.’

‘Well, thank you very much,’ Waverly said with a small bow. ‘But, if I may be so bold, what about your ears?’

Spock looked at him with a raised eyebrow, as if anticipating the response to what he was about to say.

‘To you, I am an alien species of humanoid,’ he said calmly. ‘My people are known as Vulcans. There are a number of physical and mental differences between Vulcans and humans, most notably that I have more powerful mental processes and a stronger musculature than has a human.’

‘And a bigger head,’ the doctor muttered. ‘Don’t forget the rest of it, Spock.’

‘The rest, Doctor?’ Spock asked, turning to him enquiringly.

McCoy smiled, folding his arms across his chest. ‘The deeply shameful fact that you are, in fact, half human, with some red corpuscles mixed with that green ice water you call blood.’

Spock’s lips pressed together for a split second, before relaxing again. ‘You are well aware that my blood is not frozen, Doctor. It is several degrees warmer than yours. And I am not ashamed that my mother was an Earth woman. Not _all_ humans are so bewilderingly emotional and irrational as you.’

Napoleon looked from man to man with an expression of complete disbelief. Neither of them seemed unused to exchanging such insults – and neither of them seemed to realise the strangeness of what they were saying.

‘Okay,’ Solo said. ‘So we’ve established that you’re from the future, and that one of you is half alien. Where do we go from here?’

‘Gentlemen, do you know how far-fetched that sounds?’ Illya asked the three intruders, shaking his head.

‘You can confirm this by giving me a medical examination,’ Spock told them. He held out his bared arm towards the Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent, clearly displaying the drop of green blood that had welled from the puncture wound left by the needle.

‘That’s convincing enough,’ Illya said, backing away with a rather queasy expression. ‘But why were you in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters?’

‘We asked our transporter operator to beam us into one of the larger buildings,’ Kirk said rather uncomfortably. ‘We were hoping we wouldn’t be noticed in a big work place.’

‘We asked him to deposit us in the water closet,’ the half-alien added. ‘Unfortunately, we did not realise that this was a security establishment.’

‘Do you trust us now?’ Kirk asked. ‘We’re not your enemy and we’re not trying to infiltrate your organisation. We just – made a mistake.’

‘I think we are forced to trust you,’ Waverly said with a slight shrug. ‘The evidence would suggest that you’re speaking the truth.’

He gestured for Solo and Kuryakin to put their guns down. After a moment of hesitation the U.N.C.L.E. agents both laid their weapons on the table, their reluctance very obvious in the look they exchanged.

As the guns were lowered Kirk and Spock also exchanged glances.

‘The Vulcan mind meld?’ Kirk asked Spock cryptically.

‘It would be extremely unethical, Captain,’ Spock said with a brief shake of his head.

‘Well, is a nerve pinch unethical?’

His eyebrow rose. ‘In this situation, not in the slightest – and with the doctor’s help, I think we could make them forget.’

‘Bones?’ Kirk asked.

The doctor nodded. ‘I’ve got some stuff in my medical kit that’d be pretty effective.’

‘Okay, Spock,’ Kirk nodded.

In one swift movement, Spock got to his feet and put his hand on Solo’s shoulder. Before anyone could see what he had done, the trained U.N.C.L.E. agent slipped to the floor under his hands as if he had simply fallen asleep on his feet. Spock turned towards Waverly just as quickly, arm outstretched.

‘Don’t.’

That single, emphatic word was uttered by Kuryakin. Spock froze, then looked across at him. He had his gun pointed straight at McCoy’s head.

‘I don’t miss,’ Kuryakin warned him.

Spock sat back down in his chair without a word, placing his hands palm down on the table.

‘I am sorry, Captain,’ he said simply.

‘You’re lucky I don’t shoot you just to make sure your blood really is green,’ Illya growled.

Spock’s eyebrow rose. ‘I assure you, it will not be necessary for you to do that. It would not be logical to attempt escape twice when you have proved just how alert you are.’

Kuryakin toyed with his weapon for a moment, then slipped it back in his holster, and knelt down beside Napoleon. He seemed to be in a serene sleep.

‘Have you killed him?’ Kuryakin asked, touching his fingers to Solo’s neck. ‘What did you do?’

Spock shook his head. ‘He is merely unconscious. He will wake soon. We have no intention of harming you – any of you. It could adversely affect our future.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Waverly said, ‘but you’ve just proved we cannot trust you.’

‘Spock just said that we won’t try again,’ Kirk said in a low voice. ‘He doesn’t lie. We had to try to - ’

‘Make us forget?’ Waverly interrupted. ‘How did you propose to do that? Kill us?’

‘No!’ McCoy said quickly, the vehemence of his reply causing Kuryakin to momentarily level his revolver on the doctor again. ‘Spock doesn’t just kill people, and neither do I. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake.’

‘Vulcans are dedicated to non-emotion, logic, and pacifism,’ Spock explained. ‘We also have certain telepathic capabilities. If it had been ethical, I would simply have made you forget we were here - as it is, the doctor would have used a drug to erase your memory. There would be no harm done.’

‘You’ll find we’re quite good at keeping secrets,’ Waverly promised. ‘Our organisation wouldn’t last long if we weren’t. And we will not make any written records of where and when you come from. There will only be our memories.’

‘We can’t tell you about the future because of the risk of you changing it, even by mistake,’ Kirk explained.

‘Can you tell us why you’re here?’

The Vulcan alien’s eyebrow rose, giving a distinct impression of some inner amusement, despite the lack of anything even approaching a smile. ‘To observe systems of crime and justice in this time period. It seems we have picked a prime position from which to view it.’

Mr Waverly smiled, very politely, and then shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid you won’t see much of ordinary systems of crime and justice from within this room – and allowing you to roam the building is out of the question.’

Kirk exhaled with a regretful smile.

‘Well, it was worth a try,’ he said lightly. ‘But we completely understand your reluctance. This must be a very sensitive operation.’

‘Captain, may I suggest that we beam up before we risk any more interference in this timeline?’ Spock said quietly.

‘You’re right, Spock,’ Kirk said with obvious reluctance. ‘May I?’ he asked, reaching out towards the small black devices that had been taken from them earlier.

Waverly hesitated momentarily, and then nodded. ‘Go ahead, Mr Kirk.’

Kirk picked up the devices, keeping two and giving the others to Spock. He flipped open the grill on one of the devices. Some kind of radio, Waverly assumed, but strangely more cumbersome than U.N.C.L.E.’s own pen-shaped devices.

‘Kirk to _Enterprise_ ,’ the captain said.

The device crackled in return, and Kirk’s forehead creased.

‘Kirk to _Enterprise_ ,’ he repeated.

After a moment a voice came through the device, faint and crackly, but with a very obvious Scottish accent.

‘Captain Kirk. I canna work it out, but there’s something powerful interfering with the communicator down there. Can ye hear me, Captain?’

‘I hear you, Scotty,’ Kirk said, shooting a worried glance at Spock. ‘Can you beam us up?’

There was a short pause, then an apologetic, ‘No can do, Captain. Whatever’s messing with the communicators is doing the same to the transporter. If I tried to beam you up from there at best we’d get something scrambled at the other end.’

‘Something _scrambled_?’ the irascible doctor asked, taking a step backward. ‘I always said that damn machine was – ’

‘Mr Scott,’ Spock cut over the doctor, stepping closer to Kirk’s communicator. ‘Can you tell how far the interference extends?’

‘It’s a little over two hundred yards in all directions,’ Scotty replied through the crackling link.

Kirk turned to look at Waverly, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘I don’t suppose you can explain this, sir?’

Waverly looked towards Kuryakin, and the Russian shifted slightly, turning his gaze from the unconscious form of Solo on the floor.

‘That second – transportation, do you call it? – put this place’s defence system on high alert. There are a dozen varied alarms and sensors active throughout the fabric of the building, not to mention blocking devices to disrupt radio signals and the like.’

‘The electromagnetic interference must be phenomenal,’ Spock realised.

‘And deliberately so,’ Waverly nodded. ‘Thrush have got quite a few monitoring systems that we know about – and probably some that we don’t. The system is designed to block any such probes.’

‘You mean we can’t transport out of here?’ Kirk asked in alarm. ‘How do you turn this defence system off?’

‘We don’t,’ Kuryakin said grimly. ‘It stays on force automatically for twenty-four hours, in case of Thrush sabotage. There’s no override.’

‘You see, it doesn’t interfere with _our_ operations,’ Waverly pointed out with some degree of smugness in his voice. 

Kirk exhaled, sounding as if he were trying hard to control his reaction to the news.

‘Well, it is possible to leave this place during the alert?’ he asked. ‘We can’t stay here for twenty-four hours!’

‘Oh, it’s entirely possible to _walk_ out of here,’ Waverly assured him.

‘Then may we do so?’ Kirk asked. ‘We can find a back alley or another washroom outside this building, and transport up from there.’

There was a groan from the floor, and everyone looked down to see Solo opening his eyes. He raised a hand groggily and rubbed at his shoulder.

‘Can anyone explain why I’m down here and you all are up there?’ he asked after a moment. ‘Last I remember – ’ And he looked at Spock, his eyes widening. ‘Last I remember was _you_ and some kind of misplaced handshake…’

Spock glanced briefly at his captain, then said, ‘A misplaced attempt at avoiding interference with the timeline. I apologise, Mr Solo.’

The agent clambered gingerly to his feet, holding onto the table for a moment before he realised he was quite steady. All the same, he looked at the supposed alien with a degree of suspicion.

‘Don’t mention it,’ Solo said, veiling his mistrust. ‘Say, I don’t suppose you could teach me that technique? What is it? Some kind of judo?’

Spock shook his head. ‘I don’t believe a human has ever mastered it.’

‘Gentlemen, we were talking about leaving,’ Kirk reminded the room in general. ‘The longer we stay here – ’

‘Of course,’ Spock said with a brief nod, turning his piercing gaze on Waverly.

‘Well, if you’re quite recovered, Mr Solo, you and Mr Kuryakin can show these gentlemen out,’ Waverly nodded. ‘But I’d suggest Mr Solo takes your devices for now, Mr Kirk,’ he said, with something firmer than mere suggestion in his voice. ‘Our security devices, you understand… You wouldn’t want to set off any of our more extreme measures.’

‘I understand,’ Kirk nodded, but it was obvious he was not at ease with handing over his communications device and what Waverly assumed must be a weapon. ‘Bones, Spock,’ he nodded, and the other two passed their equipment over.

‘Well, I wish you good luck in this time, gentlemen,’ Waverly nodded, moving over to the humidor that sat on the table and taking out a pinch of fine Virginia tobacco. He tamped it down into his pipe and looked up again, appearing almost surprised that the others were still there. ‘Oh – I regret that we couldn’t have a longer discussion,’ he added. ‘Come along, Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin. Our guests haven’t got all day.’

******

‘We seem to be making a habit of passing through closets today,’ Kirk observed wryly as the small group moved one by one out through the changing rooms of Del Floria’s and into the small shop. The taciturn man behind the counter depressed the trouser press without casting them a second glance, releasing a jet of steam that made the doctor jump nervously.

‘My god, Jim, it’s like being in that old working museum in Atlanta,’ he muttered, and Kirk cast him a censorious look.

‘Bones,’ he murmured, shaking his head slightly.

The doctor’s eyebrows arched. ‘Because I don’t look out of the ordinary at all?’ he asked cynically.

‘Believe me,’ Solo assured him. ‘It’s nineteen sixty-eight. There are far stranger things in heaven and earth – and on the streets of Manhattan – than what you’re wearing.’

‘The quote,’ the dark, intense alien behind him said, ‘is “There are more _things in heaven and earth_ , Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”’

‘Well, it’s nice to see they still raise them on the classics,’ Solo muttered.

‘It’s nice to be in the company of someone who appreciates fine literature,’ Kuryakin needled him, flashing a rare grin.

‘I appreciate fine art, fine wine, and fine food,’ Solo assured him. ‘As long as the lady I’m in the company of appreciates them too.’

‘And if she appreciates hamburgers and root beer?’ Kuryakin asked him.

‘Why, then I put on my checked shirt and my necktie and slide into the booth alongside her,’ Solo grinned, doing a passable impression of a redneck accent. ‘Go on, Illya,’ he nodded, his tone returning to seriousness. ‘Check the coast’s clear for our – ah – international guests.’

Kuryakin nodded economically and stepped closer to the door, his eyes seeming to focus on everything in the street outside with equal intensity. He opened the door and stepped outside, and said, ‘We’re clear.’

‘All right,’ Solo nodded, gesturing the three men from the future forward. ‘Let’s go. There’s a back alley filled with dumpsters not far away. Perfect place for that – transporting trick you do.’

The dark-haired alien stepped forward cautiously, following Kuryakin out into the small area in front of the tailor’s.

‘Fascinating,’ he murmured as a sleek, low, finned car crawled past, belching a fine powder of exhaust into the air behind it. ‘Quite fascinating.’

He stepped onto the sidewalk, his eyes following the car as it moved on round the block, completely captivated by what was essentially an alien culture to him.

‘Hey, watch out!’ Kuryakin snapped, grabbing at his arm as he stepped from the kerb just as a dark sedan came about the corner at unusually high speed. The car’s brakes squealed, it halted by the pair just for long enough for a puff of gas to be emitted from the half-open window, and as both the Vulcan and the U.N.C.L.E. agent buckled they were dragged into the car and it sped off down the street.


	3. Act II: Should Have Worn the Special Shoes. 1.

1.

 

Solo was left staring down the street, his gun instinctively drawn and aimed at the corner around which the car had disappeared. Kirk’s hand was twitching over where his phaser sat in his pocket, caught between a defensive reaction and exposing technology that was so alien to this time. He and Solo looked at each other in silence, and it was up to McCoy to ask, ‘What the hell just happened?’

Solo shifted his revolver in his hand, and pressed his lips together.

‘Back inside, now,’ he said crisply, nodding his head towards the door behind them.

‘They’ve taken Spock – ’ Kirk began, obviously itching to begin some kind of chase.

‘They’ve taken Illya too,’ Solo reminded him darkly. ‘What do you think you’re going to do? Run after it? You may have faster cars where you come from, but I doubt you can run at fifty miles per hour. Come on,’ he said, gesturing with his gun. ‘Back inside.’

Kirk’s hand hesitated over his phaser again. The U.N.C.L.E. agent was not directly pointing his gun at the captain, but the threat was obvious. He didn’t fancy a quick draw, phaser against gun, and besides, it was prohibitively irresponsible to use the phaser here, on the edge of a public street.

‘All right,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Inside. Bones, come on.’

‘Maybe Scotty could pinpoint Spock with ship’s sensors,’ the doctor suggested as they moved back into the shop. Del Floria looked nothing more than mildly curious as they made their way back through the cubicles with two of their number missing.

‘In Manhattan, amongst the millions of people here?’ Kirk asked with raised eyebrows. ‘Spock’s lifesigns may be unique, but it would still take hours to pick him out.’

‘If they’re still in Manhattan,’ Solo pointed out grimly. ‘That car could have taken them anywhere – could _be_ taking them anywhere.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m more than willing to let you use your own resources, gentlemen, but we’re on site to get started with mine.’

‘The ship’s only a call away,’ Kirk pointed out. ‘Let me speak to them while we on our way to your – ah – ground services.’

‘Impatient,’ Solo needled at Kirk’s implied criticism of the twentieth century resources of U.N.C.L.E.

‘Efficient,’ Kirk corrected. He opened his communicator at Solo’s wry smile of assent. ‘Kirk to _Enterprise_. Mr Scott.’

‘Aye, Captain,’ the accented voice filtered through the speaker, still crackling through the distortion of U.N.C.L.E.’s security net. ‘Are ye ready for beam-up?’

‘There’s been a change of plan, Scotty,’ Kirk said grimly. ‘We were on our way to the beam-up site and something happened. Mr Spock and one of the agents escorting us have been abducted.’

‘Abducted?’ Scott repeated incredulously. ‘Shall I get scanners on them, Captain?’

‘That’s exactly why I was calling,’ Kirk nodded. ‘I know it’s a long shot, but the sooner you start the better. I want you to scan this place metre by metre, radiating out from this point. They may not be in Manhattan any more, but it’s the only thing we can do.’

‘Aye, Captain – we’ll start right away,’ Scott promised.

‘Very well. Kirk out,’ the captain said.

He snapped the communicator shut, becoming aware that he was clenching his teeth together in frustration. Dammit, why hadn’t he insisted on transponders this time? They had never expected this covert observation mission to unravel into encounters with super-spy networks and kidnap attempts…

‘Your alien friend,’ Solo asked in a low voice, obviously trying to avoid the ears of other agents passing them in the corridor. ‘Just how alien is he – besides the ears and the emerald blood?’

Kirk looked toward the doctor, and McCoy sighed.

‘It’s the blood that’ll do it, if they cut him,’ the doctor muttered. He looked at Solo, raising his voice. ‘His blood is based on copper, not iron. But aside from that – there’s a difference in body temperature, organ placement, brain structure… If he’s badly hurt, they won’t know how to treat him – and if a conventional hospital gets their hands on him – Well – _you_ can tell _us_ how they’ll react better than I can tell you.’

Solo scratched the side of his nose reflectively, leading them into a room half-filled with floor to ceiling computers that were chattering quietly to themselves.

‘If a regular ER doctor gets his hands on him, he’ll be passed from doctor to doctor until they reach the top of the command structure, then they’ll call the FBI, and god only knows what’ll happen to him in _their_ hands,’ Solo said, disdain mixed with apprehension. ‘He’s an intelligent, eloquent guy, but that won’t stop them cutting him open to find out what makes him go…’

McCoy’s eyes widened. ‘Jim, if we leave him to twentieth century butchery he’ll likely as not be dead before they’ve finished working out what keeps him alive,’ he growled. ‘We need to find him.’

‘I know, Bones,’ Kirk said in a hard voice. ‘I know. Well, Mr Solo. We’ve got things started on my ship. Why don’t you show me what U.N.C.L.E. can do?’

******

Spock opened his eyes with startling abruptness. For some minutes now he had been lying in a half-conscious stupor, his brain reflecting idly on odd things like the coldness of the air and the irritating persistent itch where his wrist was against the blanket, and how the blood pulsing through his temples made his head tight with pain. But suddenly everything seemed to come together, and he remembered that he should not be lying on an uncomfortably hard mattress with a pulsing headache. He had been about to cross a road in a non-descript Manhattan street. His brain had no information with which to connect the place he had been and the place he was now.

He stared upwards, seeing what was apparently the bottom of another bunk above him. The slight bulge of the surface downwards indicated that the upper tier was occupied. He moved his head sideways, taking in the fact that he was in a very small room, not much longer than the bed he was in and not very much wider either. The walls were the dull grey of unpainted concrete, and scratched and marked with largely unintelligible graffiti.

He pressed a hand against his forehead, trying to bring pain suppression techniques to bear, and then swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat unsteadily. He was still in the same conventional suit that he had been wearing earlier, still with the rather uncomfortable faux leather shoes that had been supplied by ship’s stores. He reached up and made sure that the incongruous woollen hat was pulled down over eyebrows and ears, and then turned his head towards the front of the room, seeing that the whole of that wall was comprised of sleek metal bars, probably steel – unsophisticated but perfectly fitting to allow a guard to have a constant view of his prisoner if so desired. This was, apparently, a very typical twentieth century jail cell.

He stood, closing his eyes briefly against the pain in his head, and grasped the edge of the upper bunk with his hand to steady himself. There at eye level was the inert figure of the U.N.C.L.E. agent who had been with him in the street. Kuryakin was quite unconscious still, his blond hair flopping back from his face, his cheeks pale and his mouth part open. He didn’t appear to be hurt beyond the unconsciousness that Spock had suffered alongside him.

Spock touched his fingers briefly to the side of the man’s neck, assuring himself that he was not in danger, and then turned to the front of the cell. He pressed his forehead against the bars, momentarily grateful for the relief the chill metal afforded his head. Looking left and right, he could see nothing but an empty corridor which stretched away for some feet on the left and then turned a corner. To the right it ended with a blank wall and an abandoned plastic chair pushed up against it. Some way along the wall someone had stencilled a black, vaguely oval ring with a crude and angry looking bird inside, but the symbol meant nothing to him.

Spock shook the cell bars lightly. They were solid, evidently fixed even beyond a Vulcan’s strength. The lock in the door was impenetrable from either side and the catch immoveable. He turned back into the cell, looking about the walls for any window or grille or ventilation duct, but there were none. There were no conveniences in the small space – that omission could, perhaps, leave the opportunity for an escape attempt during a request for a toilet visit, although if their captors had any logic they would simply provide a bucket or some other receptacle…

Spock closed his mind to that unpleasant prospect. He had never enjoyed captivity, but dwelling on its indignities would not help. He turned back to the beds and the sleeping man in the upper bunk. There were definite signs of returning consciousness – slightly more blood in the cheeks and a higher pulse rate.

Spock touched his hand to the man’s shoulder and shook it lightly.

‘Mr Kuryakin,’ he said in a sharp, clear voice.

The Russian stirred a little, and then moaned softly.

‘Mr Kuryakin,’ Spock repeated.

‘Napoleon, would you keep it down?’ Kuryakin mumbled, pushing blindly at the hand that was touching him.

Spock pressed his lips together briefly. ‘Mr Kuryakin, I am not Mr Solo. I am Spock. We appear to have been abducted.’

The man blinked, slowly opening blue eyes and focussing blearily on the Vulcan’s face.

‘Oh,’ he said slowly. ‘So that’s what that was… Where – ’

He began to sit up, and then apparently realised his precarious position in the high bunk and fell back to the mattress, pressing a hand to his head.

‘Diaphuteline gas always gives me the damndest headache…’ he murmured. At the look of tightness about Spock’s eyes he said, ‘You too, then?’

‘Are you able to stand?’ Spock asked, ignoring the question.

‘Just about,’ Kuryakin said, carefully avoiding a nod. He sat slowly, rubbing at his temples with his fingers and breathing in deep gasps of air. Then with surprising steadiness he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and dropped to the floor. He looked up at the Vulcan and gave one of his brief, flashing smiles. ‘Believe me, when you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn to get over things quickly.’

Spock lifted an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps we are in similar professions. Such treatment isn’t unknown to me.’

‘How long have you been awake?’

‘Approximately six point three four minutes.’

Kuryakin blinked at the precise statement, and then nodded at the bars. ‘Seen anyone out there?’

Spock shook his head. ‘Not as yet. The corridor appears to be quite empty, and I cannot hear movement in the vicinity.’

The Russian moved to the bars himself and looked out, his eyes falling on the stencil on the wall.

‘Thrush,’ he said concisely.

‘I was not familiar with their logo.’

‘I’m all _too_ familiar with their logo.’ Kuryakin began to look about the cell, apparently making the same assessments that Spock had just performed. He rattled at the door, then stamped his foot briefly on the floor. ‘I knew I should have worn my special shoes. I don’t even have a pick…’

‘The place seems quite secure,’ Spock nodded. Then he stiffened, his ear catching the faint sound of footsteps. ‘Company,’ he said concisely.

Kuryakin looked at him sceptically. ‘Are you sure?’

‘My hearing is more acute than yours. Two of them. If you will listen – ’

And then there were footsteps and the metallic sound of a key in a lock and what was probably another barred door opening and closing, and the tramping feet came closer.

Spock glanced at Kuryakin, and the man shook his head. ‘Probably just a preliminary assessment. They might have cameras – saw we’re awake. Don’t try anything yet.’

The Vulcan nodded briefly. It was obvious that Kuryakin was still forming his own assessment of Spock and working out just how far he could trust or rely on him. In this situation it seemed best to defer to the agent’s superior experience.

The men that entered the corridor were both disreputable looking sorts, with expressions of anxiety masked in bravado. They were wearing blue overalls with the same Thrush logo emblazoned upon them that Spock had seen stencilled on the wall. As the shorter of the two approached the cell Spock had a flash of recognition. Surely he had seen that face looking out of a car window a moment before the gas had…

Yes. The memory was rushing back now. An uneven face and a mess of dark blond hair close to the car window as a hand raised and a stream of reddish gas billowed towards his face. Unable to stop himself inhaling, and dropping to his knees…

That was the sum of his memory. He glanced at Kuryakin and said in a low voice, ‘The blond was in the car.’

Kuryakin nodded.

The Thrush men reached the bars and stood for a moment, eyeing the pair inside the cell. And then the taller, dark-haired man gave Spock a long, hard look and seemed to explode, lashing out to hit the other man across the chest with a bundle of documents.

‘You idiot, Marvin!’ the man said harshly. ‘That isn’t Solo. Didn’t you even look at the description?’

‘Six foot two, dark haired, brown eyes, always in partnership with Kuryakin,’ the blond one protested. ‘They were walking out of Del Floria’s, practically arm in arm! It’s him!’

The first thrust a photo at his chest. ‘It’s _not_ him. It’s nothing like him. Goddammit, what do you think Mr Linus will say when he finds out you took the risk of scooping these two from right in front of U.N.C.L.E.’s entrance and you didn’t even get the right ones?’

‘The blond one’s right,’ Marvin argued. ‘Come on, Foulkes. One out of two’s not bad!’

‘Mr Linus doesn’t work in halves,’ Foulkes said grimly.

The man began to falter. ‘Well – he might be an important agent too. If we find out who he is…’

‘Solo’s the most important on-the-street agent there is! Who the hell could he be that’s better than Solo?’

Foulkes turned to the cell and knocked the barrel of his gun on the bars, a menacing scowl modifying the look of anger on his face.

‘All right. You,’ he said, gesturing the gun towards Spock’s chest. ‘Tell me your name.’

Spock had been regarding the discussion impassively up to this point, but now he glanced at Kuryakin, and then back at the irate human outside, and said, ‘My name is Spock.’

‘What the hell kinda name is that?’ the man asked. ‘What’s your position in U.N.C.L.E.?’

‘I have no position in U.N.C.L.E..’

‘God _damn_ it!’ the man exploded, kicking at the bars with his foot, and then hopping backwards in apparent pain. ‘Goddammit, goddammit. Then who in hell are you?’

‘I am Spock,’ Spock repeated, and caught Kuryakin trying to hide a smirk behind his hand.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent turned the laugh into a cough, and then said in a serious tone, ‘Direct your questions to me, gentlemen. Mr Spock is what he says – nothing to do with U.N.C.L.E.. You won’t gain anything from him, so why don’t you let him go?’

‘Eager to save his hide, aren’t you, Kuryakin?’ the taller man said curiously. ‘If he’s not an agent then what is he? Visiting dignitary? Top scientist?’

Spock’s eyebrow quirked. In a sense the man was right both times – but Kuryakin shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. Just a friend that we were seeing home. He’s of no use to you.’

‘Just a friend,’ Foulkes repeated with a nod. He stepped towards the bars again, looking at Spock more closely, taking in the unusual cast of his skin. His eyes moved up to the knit hat that was pulled tightly down over Spock’s more alien features. ‘That’s not right,’ he murmured. ‘What are you trying to hide under that hat, Mister?’

Spock looked briefly at Kuryakin, but the Russian was giving away no clues on how to respond. He pressed his lips together, reasoning that the hat would come off, and he would rather it was by his own hand than someone else’s. Reaching up, he carefully peeled it away from his head, revealing his Saturnine eyebrows and ears.

‘Well,’ Foulkes said slowly, glancing at Marvin. ‘What do we have here? Maybe we caught something worthwhile after all, Marvin? What do you say?’

Marvin moved closer to the cell, an unpleasant leer on his face. ‘Maybe I did,’ he nodded.

‘Call Dr Tunbridge,’ Foulkes said, still in that reflective tone. ‘Let’s find out what kind of fish we reeled in.’

******

‘Nothing.’

Solo slapped his hand against the closest computer bank in frustration.

‘No leads on the car, nothing back on the licence plate, no one matching the driver description.’

‘We _did_ barely see the driver,’ Kirk pointed out reasonably. ‘And weren’t you waiting on a report from – who was it – Agent Greene?’

‘That’s true,’ Solo nodded. ‘Ah, thank you, Doreen,’ he said, flashing an instinctively seductive smile at the hourglass-figure secretary who had just entered the room with a sheaf of papers.

She smiled in return, leaning close as she put the papers down and saying softly, ‘Don’t forget our date tonight, Napoleon. You promised this time.’

‘I did promise – and I will be there this time,’ Solo nodded, teasing a finger through her hair as she straightened up.

Both Solo and Kirk watched the woman’s rear as she moved gracefully out of the room, and McCoy groaned.

‘I never thought it was possible…’

‘What, Bones?’ Kirk asked, turning immediately to the doctor.

‘To find someone who rivalled your capacity for attention to the opposite sex,’ McCoy said acerbically. ‘You realise Spock’s still missing, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do, Bones,’ Kirk said with a hint of irritability. ‘I was just about to call the ship and see if they’ve found anything.’ He flipped open his communicator at that, turning away towards the papers the secretary had put down. ‘Kirk to _Enterprise_.’

‘Scott here, Captain,’ came the immediate response. ‘Found nothing yet, sir.’

‘All right, Scotty,’ Kirk sighed, looking idly down at the papers as Solo leafed through them. ‘What’s that?’ he murmured as Solo turned over what appeared to be a map of the larger New York area.

‘Beggin yer pardon, sir?’ Scott asked.

‘Hang on, Scotty,’ Kirk said. ‘Mr Solo?’

‘This is a map of all current known Thrush bases in the city,’ Solo said, his voice preoccupied. ‘There, there and there are the largest,’ he said, stabbing at a number of red dots.

‘Is that _Macy’s_?’ Kirk asked incredulously, bending closer.

‘Under Macy’s,’ Solo muttered. ‘It’s excellent cover. Plenty of people coming and going at all times. So – Macy’s is still there in the twenty-third century?’

Kirk smiled, remembering winters beaming over to New York and doing his Christmas shopping in the snow-crusted streets. There were as many attractive women in his century’s New York as there apparently were in this one.

Then he shook his head. ‘Best not say too much about my century to you, Mr Solo. But with your permission I’ll relay these locations to Mr Scott and we can have the search focus on those places.’

‘Go ahead,’ Solo shrugged. ‘I’m as eager to find Illya as you are to find your Mr Spock.’

‘Mr Scott,’ Kirk said into the communicator. ‘Still there?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘I’m going to relay some co-ordinates to you. I want you to concentrate the scans for Spock in those areas.’

‘Understood, captain,’ Scott said promptly. ‘Ready to receive the data.’


	4. Act II: Should Have Worn the Special Shoes. 2.

2.

 

In all of his time serving aboard the _Enterprise_ , Spock had never felt quite such a degree of personal fear as he did now. Naked, strapped to a table by bonds beyond even his strength, his mouth prised open by a device of sprung metal, he felt supremely vulnerable. By the looks and comments he was garnering from various visitors to the room, he did not feel safe in any regard. He was being treated as a particularly interesting specimen and he was almost certain that scientific curiosity would outweigh any ethics in the minds of those examining him.

‘Dental structure indicates a natural omnivore,’ the doctor bent over him was muttering, his fingers poking at Spock’s teeth. ‘But stomach contents - ’ He glanced sideways at a metal bowl on a nearby table. ‘ – indicate total vegetarianism.’

Unable to move his head, Spock could not look at the bowl, but he could smell the acrid scent of its contents. His sense of helplessness had really began as they had forced his jaws apart, inserted the metal spreader, and poured a foul tasting concoction down his throat that had made him vomit into the waiting bowl. Up until that point he had fought against them with quiet determination, knowing that what would start out as a simple examination would very probably end in his death. It had taken eight of them to force him onto the medical table and strap him down.

He had finally given up his silent resistance when they suggested that breaking his jaw might be the only way to gain access to his mouth. He had dropped it open instantly, knowing that he had lost his fight. Then they had locked it open with the spreader and poured the liquid into his mouth, holding his nose until he swallowed. At that point he had been allowed to sit up, after a fashion, hunched over uncomfortably with his wrists still fixed rigidly to the table, until his stomach had heaved its contents out into the bowl. The instant the paroxysms had subsided he had been pushed flat again, more restraints being locked over him at neck and waist, and a lab technician had begun to pick through the contents of their unpleasant prize.

He lay still, trying to ignore the probing of rubber-gloved fingers into his mouth – trying to ignore the knowledge that the probing was only going to get more intimate. What would happen when they finally took a blood sample, he could only guess.

‘Why you’re persisting in this idiocy, I don’t know,’ a Russian-accented voice came from the corner.

Spock flinched. He had been unaware that the agent from U.N.C.L.E. was in the room with him. He had even less desire to be probed before his new-found ally than by the dubiously titled doctor who was standing over him.

‘You don’t think U.N.C.L.E. would be foolish enough to send a genetically altered being out into the field if they thought you could get anything from him?’ Kuryakin continued.

Spock suppressed any visible reaction to that statement. Of course his captors would not automatically assume he was an alien. Who would, in this era of scientific experimentation? He could not help a flush of gratitude to the U.N.C.L.E. agent for trying to halt this examination now, but he had no hopes for his success.

‘He’s in _our_ field now, Mr Kuryakin,’ the Thrush doctor muttered, never taking his eyes from the body he was studying. ‘And I assure you we will get an _awful_ lot from him before his usefulness is ended.’

‘You wouldn’t kill him,’ Kuryakin replied disdainfully, although Spock sensed the statement was a veiled question. ‘He’s far too valuable alive.’

‘Oh, we won’t kill him,’ Dr Tunbridge nodded. ‘But I am very interested with what’s in here,’ he said, laying a hand on the top of Spock’s head. ‘I’d wager his IQ is a good deal higher than anyone’s in this room. I’d like to know why. And searching that particular organ may leave your friend a little worse for wear.’

Spock closed his eyes, forcing himself to exhibit no more reaction than that. The suggestion of brain damage left him sick to the stomach, but he would not let his examiner know that. He opened his eyes again to see a metal plate being propped up to the side of his head, and the scientist retreated behind a screen.

‘Hold still for the x-ray,’ he muttered, almost immediately pressing a button.

Spock lay motionless as his body was x-rayed, acknowledging that if he did not co-operate the same investigations would probably be carried out in a much more unpleasant way. He could not prevent them from noticing his oddly-placed organs or slightly differing bone structure, but it was better this way than via vivisection.

A stethoscope was pressed against his chest, and he lay watching the doctor as he listened intently.

‘Strange,’ the man murmured. He moved the stethoscope, and listened again. ‘I can’t find a heart beat…’

Spock breathed in through the sprung gag, waiting for the doctor to continue. Without the block in his mouth he could explain eloquently the precise placement of his organs, but he would not debase himself by trying to speak like this.

The stethoscope moved, and moved again, and finally the doctor said, ‘There, I’ve got it. Note that down, Ansell. Heart seems to be located in the left hand region of the transpyloric plane. Seems to be suffering a form of arrhythmia… He’s extremely torpid…’

He straightened up, looking at Spock’s face as if double checking that his patient wasn’t suddenly slipping into unconsciousness. Spock stared back, mute, willing the man to remove the gag from his mouth.

‘What in hell have we got here?’ the doctor murmured. He reached over to a metal tray and retrieved a hypodermic syringe, then turned to the pale inside of Spock’s elbow, probing the skin and trying to find a vein. Spock closed his eyes, resigned. It would only be a matter of moments…

There was the sharp sting of the needle entering his skin. A silence. And then, ‘That can’t be right…’

Spock opened his eyes as the needle was withdrawn, seeing the doctor holding the syringe aloft in a shaking hand, the emerald blood clearly visible in the cylinder.

‘Is that his blood?’

A woman in a starched white uniform entered Spock’s peripheral vision, staring at the syringe in the doctor’s hand.

‘Is that his blood, doctor?’ she repeated.

Abstractedly Spock noticed that she had a definite Bronx twang to her voice. It was perhaps an indication that they were still in the New York area.

‘Ah – let me try another vein. Hypodermic, Ansell – come on!’ the doctor said, masking his uncertainty with impatience.

The woman – evidently a nurse – slapped the needle into the doctor’s hand, and Spock waited patiently whilst another vein was found and another vial of blood extracted. He was aware of the nurse’s eyes firmly upon him, and although her demeanor was completely professional he could sense feelings beneath that would have made him blush, had he not had control of those reactions.

‘I fail to understand why you’re wasting your time with this,’ Kuryakin tried again. ‘It’s a genetic modification that helps him resist disease – that’s all. Remove that gag and he can tell you all about it.’

Spock’s eyebrow rose. While it was not true that he could not lie, dissembling did not come easily to him – but he certainly could not tell the truth to these people. Once they found out that he was from the future he would become a priceless treasure in their hands, and he could not tell how far they would go to extract information from him.

Tunbridge stood for a moment looking down at him, the vial of green blood still in his hand, apparently considering his next course of action. Then he touched a catch on the metal gag and the tension disappeared abruptly and he was able to remove it from the Vulcan’s mouth.

‘All right, then,’ he said with a slow nod. ‘Your heart, apparently, is where your liver should be. Your blood – if that’s what it is – seems to be based on something entirely different to haemoglobin. The closest correlation I can think of is the blood of horseshoe crabs.’

‘My blood is based in part on haemocyanin,’ Spock nodded.

It was the first time he had spoken in the presence of the doctor, and the man seemed taken aback by the cultivated and quiet tone of his voice.

‘Then what are you?’ he asked in a baffled tone.

‘I am a scientist,’ Spock said, truthfully enough. ‘Release me and restore my clothing and I will explain as much as you will understand about my physiology.’

Tunbridge laughed shortly.

‘Mr Linus will want to see you,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’ve barely even started on you…’

Spock tried to push aside the implications of that statement.

‘You’re a genetically altered human,’ Tunbridge continued.

‘Indeed,’ Spock said. That, at least, was partly true. He was human, in part, but significantly genetically altered from one by his Vulcan heritage.

‘How old are you?’ the man asked curiously, picking up a pad and beginning to make notes.

‘I am thirty-eight years old,’ Spock said. There was no point in concealing his age.

‘Am I to assume this experiment dates back thirty-eight years, or were you somehow altered at a later date?’

Spock raised an eyebrow. ‘I am as I was born,’ he said.

‘But there wasn’t even the technology in 1930…’ the man murmured, staring at Spock. ‘How could something have been created…’

Spock repressed the tiniest of flickers of anger at being reduced to a _something_. He had been forced to fight his entire life against being made into a scientific anomaly – an _it_ rather than a _he._ It was impossible not to feel that he had come to the pinnacle of that objectification, lying here being examined as a specimen.

The phone rang, a stark jangling sound that cut through the pensive silence in the room. Ansell answered it and said crisply, ‘Mr Linus, Doctor.’

Tunbridge took the receiver, and Spock listened to the one-sided conversation.

‘Yes, sir … Yes, I have him on the table … It’s fascinating – I really would urge you to … But … Yes, Mr Linus. Yes, of course, sir. Right away.’

Tunbridge stood for a moment with the receiver in his hand, and then put it down with surprising force. He stripped off his rubber gloves with the violence of deep frustration and threw them into a nearby bin.

‘Well,’ he said slowly. And then he said in a crisp tone, ‘Ansell, clean this lot up. Mr Linus is bringing in Professor Schroder tomorrow. He doesn’t want the subject examined further until then. We’ve orders to return him to his cell.’

Spock let out breath between his lips. The relief that sighed through him was only tempered by the knowledge that this would begin again tomorrow, and probably in more earnest.

‘Professor Schroder?’ Ansell asked as she began to gather up clattering medical implements and drop them into another container for sterilisation. ‘Isn’t he the vivisection specialist?’

Spock felt a tightness rippling through his skin that completely effaced the fleeting relief.

‘That’s the one,’ Tunbridge said carelessly. He sighed and shook his head, and then said. ‘Well, I’m off, then. I’m out of this. Tell them to take these two back to their cell.’

******

‘Gentlemen, we have a breakthrough,’ Napoleon said, putting the phone receiver down and turning to Kirk and McCoy with a satisfied grin. ‘She’s about five six, blonde, and very anxious to tell us something about our ‘experimental soldier man’.’

Kirk and McCoy exchanged glances.

‘Experimental soldier man? _Spock?’_ McCoy asked incredulously.

‘ _Green-blooded enhanced lifeform_ , was one of her modes of description,’ Solo nodded. ‘I’m meeting her tonight at Le Chat Bleu in the Village. More Illya’s scene than mine, but I’m sure I can rough it.’

‘ _We’re_ meeting her tonight,’ Kirk corrected him firmly.

‘Uh, gentlemen, it’s always best to go on dates alone,’ Solo demurred. ‘It might look a little odd…’

‘In the Village?’ Kirk asked with raised eyebrows. ‘I’ve read my twentieth century history, Mr Solo. Besides, this isn’t a date. It’s a fact finding mission.’

The agent sighed. ‘I guess I’d feel the same if it were you going alone,’ he said, rubbing his thumb along his lip. ‘All right, Mr Kirk. Come. But just you, and I’m not happy with you taking that weapon out into public.’

Kirk nodded slowly. ‘If you can assure me of a safe place to put it,’ he said. ‘And allow me a revolver in exchange. I’d had a fair deal of experience with antique weapons.’

‘Now, wait a minute, Jim,’ McCoy began. ‘Have you any idea how much mess those things can make when they go off? And what am I going to do while you’re gone?’

‘I have plenty of idea, Bones,’ Kirk nodded. ‘And you’re a big boy, Doc. I’m sure you can occupy yourself here. We’ve already lost Spock. I’m not risking another one of my men.’

McCoy grumbled inarticulately, but he could not argue. The twentieth century was a surprisingly hazardous place.

‘The weapon can go in Waverly’s safe,’ Solo nodded. ‘It’ll be fine there. And I’ll arrange for someone to show the good doctor our leisure facilities. I’m sure he’ll have a far pleasanter evening than we will.’

******

Kirk felt as if he were in a historical re-enactment as he sat in the cellar of Le Chat Bleu, with tobacco smoke wreathing through the air and the scent of real alcohol thick in his lungs. Behind the murmur of voices the discordant sounds of a double bass and piano worked through a formless jazz composition that seemed to make little more sense than the falling rain. He glanced at his watch, marvelling again at the beautiful simplicity of clockwork. People could laud modern technology all they liked – there was something addictive about antiques like this.

‘Seven thirty, you said,’ he murmured. He fingered the antique revolver under his jacket, hoping he would not have cause to use it.

‘Where I come from it’s fashionable for a lady to be late,’ Solo said with a patient smile. He sipped at his verdant drink, and grimaced.

‘Regretting the absinthe?’ Kirk asked, glad that he had had the sense to simply order a beer, despite the look of disgust on the waitress’s face when he asked for it.

‘That’s one word for it,’ Solo nodded, setting the glass down. ‘Ah – here’s our little stool pigeon now,’ he said in an undertone, nodding towards the door. ‘She said she’d be in a dress that didn’t quit.’

Kirk glanced toward the door, seeing a woman stepping down the red-painted steps into the cellar on absurdly high heels. The lady was attractive, but he thought, to put it politely, that her dress looked as if it had had the contents of a particularly additive-rich sweet shop spilt over the fabric. He squinted, but that made the psychedelic pattern no better as she moved through the fug of smoke towards their table. The only consolation was that the dress wasted no extraneous material, and the body that was left exposed was particularly pleasing. Ansell looked very different to the starched and well-presented nurse that Spock had been exposed to.

‘Mr Solo?’ she said enquiringly towards Napoleon.

Solo nodded, raising his glass towards her in a casual greeting.

‘You said you’d be alone,’ she hissed, a small amount of panic in her voice, her eyes flicking to Kirk.

‘This is my colleague Mr Kirk,’ Solo said, nodding towards Jim. ‘He’s – ah – very concerned about the subject you’ve come to discuss.’

She hesitated for a moment, glancing towards the door – and then she sat down at the chair that Solo pulled out for her.

‘A brandy,’ she said, as a waitress moved towards her. ‘A large one.’

‘Well?’ Solo asked as soon as they were alone again. ‘What did you have to spill, Miss – er – ?’

‘This patient,’ she said in an undertone. ‘I mean, er – ’

‘Is he hurt?’ Kirk asked quickly, leaning forward.

‘No – I mean, not really… Not yet,’ she said. ‘But – ’

Her nerves seemed to fail her. She fell into silence as the waitress brought her drink, and then sat sipping it slowly, letting the strong liquor settle in her stomach. Kirk showed signs of impatience and Solo shook his head subtly, touching the captain’s arm with one hand.

‘He’s attractive, despite the ears,’ she broke out eventually, in a defensive tone. ‘Maybe because of them… Believe me, when he was on that table being examined my mind wasn’t entirely on the job, if you know what I mean.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Solo nodded sympathetically.

He glanced at Kirk and grinned quickly as the woman’s eyes dropped to her glass again. She swirled the brandy in the snifter pensively.

‘We’re all human, after all,’ Solo said.

Kirk almost choked on his beer at the irony of that statement, and Ansell looked at him in surprise.

‘Well, they’re going to show him to Schroder tomorrow,’ she said in another rush of words. ‘And we all know what he’s like. He’ll cut things up just to see them hurt. And this guy – this Spock, he’s called, isn’t he? Well, I don’t want to see him cut up. Schroder’ll do it without anaesthetic. Without anything. He’ll be fascinated, and he won’t care… I don’t want to see him cut up. I like him…’

Solo exchanged a worried look with Kirk.

‘And what about Kuryakin?’ he asked clearly. ‘He’s there too?’

She nodded, taking another deep swallow of her drink. ‘Mmm. They don’t care about him now, though. They’ll save him for later. They’re focussing on the genetically modified guy.’

‘Where is he?’ Solo asked in a low voice.

She moved uncomfortably on the chair, playing with the neckline of her dress.

‘Do you know about the place on Lexington?’ she asked.

‘Under the cover of the beauty salon?’ Solo nodded. ‘We know about it.’

‘Is that where he is?’ Kirk asked quickly, and Solo touched his arm again.

‘Schroder will be there by seven tomorrow morning,’ the woman said, looking about herself nervously. ‘I can’t stand him. I can’t stand what he does to people… I’m supposed to assist…’

‘All right,’ Solo nodded patiently. ‘Is there anything else?’

She bit her lip into her mouth, leaving pale lipstick on her teeth. ‘Mr Linus will kill me if he finds out,’ she murmured. ‘He’ll kill me right out…’

‘We can arrange protection,’ Solo began, but she shook her head.

‘Just get your friend,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to assist at another vivisection. Get your friend.’

And she set the empty snifter of brandy down on the table and stood up with a jerk, disappearing between the milling ranks of people in the bar before Kirk or Solo could call her back.

Kirk sat for a moment, turning his glass in his hands.

‘Productive,’ Solo said after a silence.

‘But disturbing,’ Kirk said seriously. ‘Vivisection. Do you think she was telling the truth?’

‘I’ve heard of Schroder,’ Solo nodded. ‘He sounds like the stuff of nightmares, but he’s no figment. We need to get your friend out of there before seven a.m.’

 


	5. Act III: Lab Rats Never Made the Best Escapees. 1.

1.

 

Spock sat on the bottom bunk in the cell, rubbing his lip pensively with his thumb. His clothing had been ruined in his captors’ efforts to strip him for examination, but they had been replaced with pale blue overalls that were ill-fitting and uncomfortable. He was cold and bruised, and mildly disturbed by memory of Nurse Ansell’s lingering hands as she had, quite unnecessarily, cleaned his body before his release and return to the cell. Had Kuryakin not been in the room he would have feared for his personal dignity even further than it had already been violated.

Those were the least of his concerns, however. Those events had disturbed him emotionally, but emotion could be dealt with. Physical injury was far different. He estimated that the time was about seven thirty in the evening. He did not know when the working day started in this place, but the time between now and the rumoured arrival of Professor Schroder seemed unpleasantly short.

‘Are you sure you won’t – ’ Kuryakin asked from beside him, holding a tray of food towards him.

Spock turned discreetly away from the scent of the mess on the tray. It appeared to be some kind of long-boiled meat stew, and he had instantly offered his own to Kuryakin when it had been put through the cell door.

‘I am sure,’ he said flatly. ‘I do not eat meat, Mr Kuryakin,’ he explained then, looking towards the agent. Kuryakin had been nothing less than quietly supportive of him since their return to the cell, and it would not do to alienate him.

‘Vegetarian,’ Kuryakin murmured, taking another spoonful of the food. ‘It’s a shame – it’s surprisingly good.’

‘I’m quite capable of going without food for some time,’ Spock said.

He stood restlessly and moved to the front of the cell, testing the bars again despite his knowledge that they were not forcible.

‘I’ve been in cells like these many times, my friend,’ Kuryakin said, looking up from his meal. ‘They’re not easy places to break out from.’

‘And yet you must have managed,’ Spock pointed out.

‘True,’ Kuryakin said reasonably.

He put his empty tray aside on the floor and dusted his hands together briefly. Still in his black suit and tie, he looked in a far more presentable state than Spock did at this point.

‘I am certain that Napoleon is working hard on finding us,’ Kuryakin said confidently. ‘And your – er – Mr Kirk,’ he said, carefully avoiding any reference to Kirk’s status.

‘Yes, Mr Kirk is extraordinarily persistent,’ Spock nodded.

He tapped his fingernail on the bars, analysing again the resonance that indicated how solidly they were set into the floor and ceiling. Then he gripped at them hard and attempted to pull. His muscles bulged, but after a considerable effort there was absolutely no change in the bars.

‘There is very little point,’ Kuryakin said with a smile, coming up behind him. ‘No one could force those bars – not even you.’

‘I am aware of certain species – ’ Spock began, and then broke off quickly, dropping his hands from the bars. Anxiety must be impacting on his concentration, or he would never have come so close to making a slip.

He sat back down on the bed, and occupied himself in watching the slim Russian agent as he took over Spock’s careful examination of the door and its mounting points. It was an illogical investigation, since Kuryakin had just assured him that the bars could not be forced. But Kuryakin was thorough – of that Spock was certain – and he seemed concerned for Spock’s safety.

Of the two agents it was Solo who reminded him most of Jim. Brash and apparently self-confident, fond of the female sex and in favour of recreating as hard as he worked. Jim had not struck Spock favourably on first impressions, and it had taken long months of working together for the Vulcan to see through the façade to the intelligent and less than confident man beneath. Perhaps Spock would strike up a friendship with Solo too, after a time, but he had not known him long enough for that, and however this escapade turned out it was doubtful he ever would.

On the other hand Kuryakin was quiet and reflective, and seemed to possess a considerable amount of self-control. He was evidently highly intelligent and devoted to his work. Almost like a Vulcan, Spock thought idly. If he considered his reactions to the agent’s personality, he thought that on the whole he liked him. He possessed a great deal of logic and a great deal of determination.

‘Are you familiar with the name Mr Linus?’ Spock asked curiously as Kuryakin began to probe the hinges of the barred door.

‘I’ve heard of him,’ Kuryakin nodded. ‘Never seen him face to face. He’s reputed to be cruel and ruthless.’ He turned, giving a quick smile. ‘Let’s say I’d rather get out of here before we have the pleasure of his company.’

‘That may not be possible.’

‘Maybe not,’ Kuryakin shrugged. ‘But Napoleon has a habit of emulating the cavalry, and giving a late charge. I wouldn’t give up hope yet.’

******

In U.N.C.L.E. headquarters tension hummed through the small room where Solo, Kirk and McCoy were discussing the meeting that had just occurred and how best to act on the information gained. Solo had rudimentary plans of the Lexington facility spread out on the desk and was carefully studying the fragmented information upon them.

‘Well, why aren’t we getting him out _now_?’ McCoy asked, moving restlessly on the edge of the desk he was leaning on. ‘We can’t let that happen to Spock. Doctors of this era have no idea about Vulcans – _no idea_ , Jim! They barely have an idea about humans… Goddamn catgut and scalpels! Where the hell are their surgical lasers? What about sterile-fields? Good God, Jim!’

‘Bones, we’re getting him out,’ Kirk said calmly but firmly. ‘We’re going to get him out.’

‘If we rush into a termite’s nest like that we’ll be stung all over,’ Solo said seriously. ‘And your friend and Illya’ll be stung worst of all.’

‘Do they even have anaesthetics?’ McCoy muttered, fiddling irritably with his medical tricorder.

‘Bones, you know your medical history better than that,’ Kirk chided him.

‘I – er – wouldn’t rely on Schroder to make full use of them,’ Solo said cautiously. ‘By all accounts he’s a sadistic bastard – all in the name of science, of course. I’d be happy if we could get him in our net, but I’m hoping to have our people out of there long before he arrives… But look,’ he said, turning the map towards Kirk. ‘The main entrance of the place is through the beauty salon – but there’s an entrance here,’ he tapped at the paper, ‘which we should be able to make use of. Now, finding Illya and your friend should just be a matter of persistence – but I’m guessing you might have technology that can speed things up a little.’

‘These are the cells here?’ Kirk asked, touching a block of small rooms on the plan.

‘We think so,’ Solo nodded. ‘Can’t be sure.’

‘It’s possible we could beam in,’ Kirk mused. ‘If not in the cell block, at least nearby. But we’d risk setting off the kind of alarms we set off here…’

‘Yeah, that’s a considerable risk,’ Solo murmured. ‘Thrush are touchy about electronic invasions. If alarms go off they’ll lock the place down tighter than Alcatraz. But do you have any kind of – er – portable sensors – like those ones you were using on your ship?’

‘The tricorder,’ McCoy nodded, lifting the black, leather-covered device to show it to Solo. ‘My medical tricorder should pick up Spock’s readings when we’re in proximity. Warn us of enemies, too.’

‘That’ll be useful,’ Solo nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve arranged for you two to get fitted out with suitable clothing. You go get into your gear while I finalise the plans. We want to get this moving as soon as possible.’

‘Where are we heading?’ Kirk asked, looking at the door.

‘Of course,’ Solo murmured. He opened up the intercom and spoke through it. ‘Miss Chavez, would you come through and show my guests where to find their change of clothes?’

‘Of course, Napoleon,’ came the feminine reply.

After only a few seconds a petite, dark-haired and very attractive woman came through the door and smiled warmly at Solo.

‘Lunch on Saturday,’ she said, before looking at the other two men. ‘Don’t forget, Napoleon.’

‘I never forget,’ Solo promised. ‘Uh – take Mr Kirk and Dr McCoy to outfitting and help them sort out their clothes, won’t you?’

‘Of course, Napoleon,’ she smiled, then finally looked at Kirk and McCoy. ‘Gentleman, this way, please.’

The two followed. Kirk glanced surreptitiously at McCoy and smiled.

‘Pleasant views they have in this building,’ he murmured.

‘Yes, and I think most of them are spoken for – by Mr Solo,’ McCoy said cynically. ‘Good God, Jim, I never thought I’d come across a man worse that you. Any Solos in your family history, by any chance?’

Kirk grinned. ‘Not as far as I know, Bones. Besides, what’s wrong with being a red-blooded male? Looks to me like they went about it the right way in the nineteen sixties.’

******

Kuryakin’s eyes blinked open and he looked down from the top of the bunk, into the corridor outside. The plastic chair had been moved to opposite the cell and there was a guard sitting on it, awake but apparently intensely bored.

‘Company,’ he murmured.

‘Mmm,’ Spock nodded.

He had not been asleep, and had turned his bedding around so that he could lie looking out through the bars through half-closed eyes. In the dim light it would seem to most observers that he was asleep while in fact, he was observing them. He had been lying here for hours, waiting for the guard who had arrived to succumb to human sleep. He estimated it was sometime around five a.m., and dawn was unpleasantly close.

‘Keys,’ he said quietly, nodding towards the man’s waist.

‘A lot of good they’ll do us on his belt,’ Kuryakin said darkly. ‘Now, if we could make him stand up and give them to us – but I never was any good at hypnosis.’

Spock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Hypnosis is highly unreliable,’ he said. ‘However, I do have more scientific resources at my disposal.’

Kuryakin sat up too, careful to be smooth and silent in his movements. He looked down at the Vulcan from the top bunk.

‘If you’ve got something planned, you’d better let me know,’ he said.

‘I have certain mental abilities,’ Spock said cautiously. Revealing an ability for what a human of this era would called ‘mind-reading’ could have unforeseen consequences. ‘I may be able to implant a suggestion…’

‘On him?’ Kuryakin asked, nodding towards the guard.

Spock nodded.

‘Then I suggest you do it – will all haste,’ Kuryakin said, slipping soundlessly to the floor. ‘Time’s moving on.’

‘I need to concentrate,’ Spock warned him.

‘I will be as silent as the grave,’ Kuryakin promised. The resonance of those words was lost on neither of the men in the cell.

Spock moved closer to the front of the cell, slowly raising his hands and placing them against the metal bars, as if he were uselessly seeking a weakness again. But this time, instead of testing the bars, he stood very still, wrapped in a concentration so deep that it seemed to fill the cell. Slowly, the guard’s eyes flickered open. Kuryakin tensed, waiting for a reaction from the man – but he simply sat on the chair, his eyes fixed on Spock with an empty expression.

Spock’s hands moved slightly on the bars, and the feeling of concentration deepened further. The guard shifted slightly, looking deeply tired. And then he stood, and then hesitated, and then walked slowly forward towards the bars until he was standing right in front of the Vulcan.

Spock’s hands moved slowly and calmly. His left moved to the man’s waist and silently closed about the keys that hung there. His right touched the junction of the guard’s neck and shoulder, and squeezed. Silently, the man fell to the floor. Spock made no attempt to lower him gently. In his left hand the keys resisted for a moment, and then, with the full weight of the guard’s body hanging from them, broke their connection to the belt.

Spock turned around and held the keys out to Kuryakin with one eyebrow raised.

‘Is he dead?’ Illya asked, nodding towards the guard. The suddenness with which he had fallen was disconcerting.

‘Unconscious only,’ Spock said with a shake of his head.

‘How long for?’

‘Responses depend on the individual. I should say no less than two hours.’

Kuryakin nodded curtly. He reached his arm through the bars of the cell and inserted one key after another into the lock, until the door swung open. Then he took the guard under the arms and dragged him into the cell.

‘He’s more my size than yours,’ he muttered, beginning to strip the uniform from the man. ‘Much as I dislike dressing as one of our feathered friends, it might stall enquiry for a moment if someone spots us.’

‘Agreed,’ Spock nodded, kneeling to assist the agent.

While Kuryakin changed his clothes Spock arranged the discarded black suit under the blanket of the upper bunk to as much as possible resemble a body, and then manoeuvred the guard into the lower bunk and covered him over. He glanced at Kuryakin to see that he was fully dressed, and looking more than a little uncomfortable in the blue uniform and cap.

‘Needs must,’ Kuryakin muttered, registering the Vulcan’s gaze. He carefully removed the pistol from the holster and checked it was loaded, and then nodded. ‘All right – out.’

Spock nodded, slipping from the cell in front of the agent, acknowledging that he would have to play the part of the prisoner still.

‘Do you have any idea of the layout of this facility?’ he asked in a low voice.

‘None at all,’ Kuryakin admitted. They reached a second locked gate, and he cycled through the keys again until he found the right one. ‘It will have to be trial and error, I’m afraid.’

Spock nodded, looking right and left down the corridor that they had entered. The place was a featureless grey maze. He would have no trouble in leading Kuryakin back to the room in which he had undergone examination, but he had no desire to go near that place.

‘I would suggest left,’ he said. ‘There seems to be a draft from that direction.’

Kuryakin nodded, and turned left, moving down the empty corridor with cautious steps.

‘We’re underground,’ he said. ‘I know that much. We’re looking for an elevator.’

Spock paused, listening. ‘That direction,’ he said, nodding. ‘I can hear the motor. Of course,’ he cautioned, ‘that means that someone is currently using the device.’

Kuryakin looked up and down the corridor. There were few doorways or alcoves in the well-lit space.

‘There’s nowhere much to hide,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to brazen it out if we come across anyone.’

Spock’s eyebrow raised in a gesture that Kuryakin was beginning to understand signified a degree of disbelief.

‘Please, if you have any other suggestions – ’ the agent invited him.

The Vulcan shook his head. ‘Not at the present moment,’ he said. ‘But I am dubious as to whether your disguise will suffice should we be discovered.’

Kuryakin laughed shortly. ‘I’m not dubious at all,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s the only chance we have.’

******

It seemed ridiculously easy for Solo, Kirk and McCoy to slip into the Thrush base on Lexington. Walking nonchalantly into a back alley, the three men halted behind a dumpster at an unlit window that was half underground. Solo moved casually down the steps and forced the window with nothing more sophisticated than his own hand. Kirk looked at him in surprise.

‘Somehow, I thought they’d be better defended than this,’ he said.

‘Oh, this isn’t their building,’ Solo said in an undertone. ‘This is next door. We made this entry last year for a raid that never went through. They’ve never discovered the entrance.’

‘You think,’ McCoy put in cynically, looking about the small, neglected room that the window had opened onto.

‘We think,’ Solo nodded cheerfully. ‘It’s the best we’ve got, gentlemen – unless you propose knocking on the front door?’

‘No, by all means,’ Kirk said with a grin. ‘I’ve always been in favour of slipping in the back. Come on, Bones.’

McCoy favoured him with a dubious look, and then followed him to the edge of the window through which Solo had just dropped. He scrutinised the dusty floor below and then manoeuvred himself through the gap and joined Solo. As he waited for Jim to clamber through he shouldered into the white lab coat he had been supplied with at U.N.C.L.E., and slung an old-fashioned stethoscope around his neck, smiling at the antiquated stereotype of a doctor that he had transformed into.

‘It’s here somewhere,’ Solo muttered, beginning to prod at various boards and old canvases that were leant against the wall. The place looked like storage for a failing artist. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, swinging aside a particularly lurid painting to reveal a dark hole beyond. ‘Now, this leads into the ventilation ducts and opens into a storage closet. Let me go first…’

Within minutes they were standing in an equally dark, but far less neglected, room in the building next door as Solo silently swung the ventilation grille back over the hole through which they had just slipped.

‘Okay,’ Solo said softly, flashing his small torch over the floor, highlighting shelves and boxes filling the small space. ‘Door’s over here. Let’s go. Try to act as if you belong here.’

McCoy hung back against a rank of shelves as Solo cracked the door open, waiting for the two more combat-experienced men to exit first. Light flooded into the room, but as Solo and Kirk stepped out into the corridor he heard Solo say, ‘Ahh,’ in a tone of polite regret – and then another, unfamiliar voice saying, ‘Okay, U.N.C.L.E., step out where we can see you and don’t try anything stupid.’

McCoy froze, pressed against the shelves, biting his breath back between his teeth. He was close to the corner of the room, and there were stacked boxes just to the left of him. In absolute silence he slipped sideways and crouched down, just as the light flared on in the room and someone stepped inside. A voice very close to him said, ‘No, it’s just the two of them. Room’s clear,’ and then the light flicked off and the door closed again, leaving him in total darkness.


	6. Act III: Lab Rats Never Made the Best Escapees. 2.

2.

 

It did not take long for Illya and Spock to run across a Thrush man patrolling the corridors where there was no hope of concealment. So far they had made use of alcoves and cupboards for places to conceal themselves, but this time the corridor was long and straight and there was no way to avoid anyone. A pair of guards came about the corner at the end and there was simply no place to hide.

‘What’s it doing out of its cell?’ one of the man asked, gesturing at Spock carelessly with his gun as they approached.

Despite his stoicism, Spock bridled at the mode of address.

‘Taking him up to prepare him for Schroder,’ Kuryakin said promptly, sounding bored at the task.

‘Schroder won’t be here for another two hours. Ansell’s lined up to prep him at half past six,’ the guard said suspiciously. ‘What’s your number, bud? Which section are you stationed at?’

Spock flexed his hand, considering a nerve pinch, but the second guard was ready with his gun. Kuryakin’s pistol was not silenced and any shot would send alarms ricocheting through the building. He waited in silence, acknowledging that yet again he was utterly powerless.

‘My number?’ Kuryakin asked, fingering his collar with what Spock assumed was feigned nervousness. For a moment he gained a powerful impression of _be ready_ , and then Kuryakin’s fist shot out in a powerful cut to the man’s abdomen and another to his jaw, and only a split second behind Spock clenched his hand on the other’s neck.

It was over within seconds, with not a shot fired. Spock removed the revolvers from the unconscious men’s hands, and nodded to Kuryakin.

‘Excellently done.’

‘I wasn’t sure how powerful that mind reading trick was,’ Kuryakin said with a lightning smile, ‘but it seemed to work.’

‘Indeed,’ Spock nodded. ‘Now…’

‘I’d suggest the elevator,’ Illya said, nodding towards a pair of brushed steel doors just down the corridor.

But as they turned towards their escape route the doors slid open and they were greeted by five revolvers, pointed directly at them.

‘This time, your hearing fails you,’ Kuryakin said acerbically, eyeing the men with dismay.

‘I was distracted,’ Spock excused himself.

If he had been distracted before, he was even more distracted now. Between them and the men with the guns stood Solo and Kirk, both dressed in suits of the era and, by the way their hands were held away from their bodies, both obviously captives. Spock saw the moment of startled recognition in Kirk’s eyes, and then Kuryakin smiled ruefully.

‘Well, I guess we’re outnumbered,’ he said, dropping his gun onto the floor.

Spock followed suit, letting both revolvers he had taken fall beside the U.N.C.L.E. agent’s. It was not worth risking Solo and Kirk’s lives and if they fought someone was certain to be shot.

‘Spock,’ Kirk said with a similar smile of regret to Kuryakin’s. ‘Long time, no see. Have you seen the doctor yet?’

‘I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Dr Schroder,’ Spock said. It was rather obvious, he thought, that he had not yet been subjected to vivisection.

‘Ah well, you’ll give the old saw _bones_ my regards, won’t you?’ Kirk asked.

Spock resisted reaction, but it became obvious to him suddenly that Kirk was speaking of McCoy and not of Schroder. McCoy must be here somewhere, and had presumably evaded capture.

‘I will indeed,’ he said tonelessly.

‘Okay, enough of a reunion – cuff him,’ one of the guards said, cutting through the exchange impatiently. ‘You saw on the security vid what he did with his hands. No doubt Schroder will want to investigate that little gem, too.’

Spock stood passively, allowing his hands to be cuffed behind his back. He had no other option. Jim’s eyes were fixed on him, apology written in every line of his body. They had come here to liberate Spock, not to watch him being led away to his fate. A rough hand closed about his arm and he was jerked forward, into the lift.

******

McCoy stayed crouched behind the stacked boxes for what felt like a long time. He listened to the footsteps moving away, and finally he opened the old-fashioned doctor’s bag he had brought and took his tricorder out, flipping up the screen. The light seemed startlingly bright in the dark room, but it was a comfortingly familiar device in this unfamiliar time and place. He set it to detect life signs and moved it slowly in an arc, silently cursing the warbling noise that the tricorder insisted on giving out.

Finally satisfied that there was no one nearby, he closed the tricorder and stood up. He touched his hand briefly to his hip, where one of this time’s barbaric, solid metal revolvers sat in his pocket. He hated the thing, but it was some small relief to have a means of self-protection.

He put the tricorder back in the doctor’s bag and moved to the door in cautious silence.

The corridor was empty, just as the tricorder had suggested it would be. He looked left and right, trying to recall the fragmentary plans that Solo had shown them back at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. If they had been correct, the medical facility should be on this level, some distance to the south of where he was standing. McCoy pulled on his best attempt at professional demeanour and strolled down the corridor as if he were simply another Thrush doctor on his way to do his job.

‘Like a darn rat maze,’ he muttered under his breath as he turned down yet another corridor. He was searching at each turn for signs, but there was nothing yet. He didn’t want to be caught walking about this place as if he had never been here before, and he certainly didn’t want to be caught with the tricorder out, studying the plans of the place.

And then he saw doors that had a familiar, hospital look to them. They were nothing like those from a hospital of his time, but he had studied antique medicine and was perfectly familiar with those kind of doors with metal panels making up the bottom half as a way of protecting them from the damage of gurneys rushing through. He set his shoulders, lifted a hand, and walked through the doors as if he had every right to be in this place.

He found himself in some kind of surgical anteroom, equipped with large white sinks and bright lights. There was a man in Thrush overalls leaning against the wall and McCoy tried not to let his momentary surprise show in his movements.

‘Professor Schroder?’ the man asked, straightening up quickly.

‘Uh – ’ McCoy hesitated briefly, options whirling through his head. Identifying himself as Schroder seemed appealing, but he would probably be exposed very quickly. ‘Dr McCoy,’ he said with false geniality, offering a hand. ‘Professor Schroder’s assistant.’ He rubbed his hands together, slipping into a persona he had made up on the spot. ‘I can’t wait to get a look at that green-blooded oddity,’ he said. ‘Must be the medical story of a lifetime!’

‘Whole thing gives me the heebie-jeebies,’ the man said with a shudder. ‘Glad I’m just on guard and not getting any closer.’

‘Well, you just leave it to us medical men,’ McCoy said genially. ‘Is the subject in there yet?’

The guard shook his head. ‘Not yet. They’re bringing him up now. Apparently he and that U.N.C.L.E. guy tried to pull an escape.’

‘Oh, really?’ McCoy said, trying not to sound overly interested.

‘Yeah, and they caught another couple of U.N.C.L.E. men busting in to try to get him out. Well, there’s three of them down in the cells now, aren’t there, and we’ve still got that mutant thing. U.N.C.L.E. are losing their touch.’

‘Must be,’ McCoy said.

He walked over to the sinks and turned the tap on, trying to focus himself on something other than this man and his annoying chatter. He needed to think, not to exchange pleasantries with the minion of a psychopathic organisation. With Jim and Solo captured and Kuryakin and Spock still in the hands of Thrush, he was the only person in a position to do anything. Spock was in the most danger, though. The best place for him was right here, ready to intercept Schroder and free Spock – somehow…

******

The surgical room beyond was a chilling place. It chilled McCoy not just because of the crudity of the twentieth-century tools and instruments, but also because of the restraints on the table that looked much like one that would be found in a morgue. He hated to think of what pain and terror previous victims in this room had gone through. He began to imagine it as a 1960s version of a torture chamber.

He brushed beads of cold sweat from his forehead and opened the old-fashioned medical bag. He had to stay calm and in control, or else Spock really _would_ end up being one of those hapless victims. He scanned through the various capsules he had, and selected something that would sedate an average human male for a good few hours. The capsule held four doses, and it would have to serve in place of a phaser in these circumstances. He slipped the capsule into his hypo, and waited.

He was leaning against the table when the door finally opened and a man in a scrupulously clean white coat came through. He was greying at the temples and wore spectacles with small, circular lenses. He looked around at McCoy with the piercing gaze of a hawk.

‘Dr Schroder?’ McCoy asked, trying to hide the hesitancy from his voice.

‘Yes, I’m Schroder,’ the man said, a faint Germanic accent tinting his words. There was something in his eyes and face that spoke of keen intelligence. ‘But I don’t know you. Who are you?’

‘Dr McCoy,’ McCoy said genially. ‘I was sent to – ’

‘There is no Dr McCoy in this facility,’ Schroder said suspiciously.

‘Well, I – ’ McCoy began, stepping forward and raising his arm in a smooth, casual movement that ended with the hiss of the hypo against the man’s arm.

Schroder slumped to the floor and McCoy stood staring at him, trying to work out what to do. He looked about himself wildly. There, off to the side, was a large cupboard of sorts, made of dark, brushed steel. He opened the doors and found it empty enough to contain an unconscious body. He heaved Schroder up under the arms and dragged the dead weight across the room, shoving him unceremoniously into the cupboard and closing the doors tightly.

It was not a moment too soon. As he straightened up and turned back to the room there was a thump at the doors and they were pushed open. The first man through was Spock, his hands cuffed behind his back, closely followed by a Thrush guard holding a sleek black revolver against Spock’s side.

Thank God Spock was Vulcan, McCoy thought. Anyone else might have displayed a reaction. Spock merely regarded McCoy impassively and did not speak – but the doctor thought he could see a flicker of relief in the Vulcan’s eyes.

‘Are you Professor Schroder?’ the Thrush man asked. This time McCoy had little choice, or Schroder would be identified as missing.

‘Why, yes I am,’ he said genially, holding out his hand.

‘I thought you were German?’ the man said curiously.

‘Not me. Georgia born and raised. My daddy was from Switzerland.’

‘Ah, that explains it,’ the man said, suddenly friendly again. ‘Well – go ahead, then.’

McCoy looked at Spock uncertainly. ‘I don’t like an audience,’ he prevaricated.

‘Mr Linus’s orders,’ the guard said apologetically. ‘I’m not to let this one out of my sight. He’s already escaped once.’

‘Ah, well, then,’ McCoy smiled. ‘Just – don’t come too close,’ he said. ‘Unless you like surgery and all the mess that goes with it. His blood’s green, you know. Don’t get to see that every day!’

The man faltered, his face paling a little. ‘I’ll – er – I’d better stand guard on the door,’ he said. ‘Best place. Uh – go ahead.’ He moved toward the door, and then said cautiously, ‘You sure you can handle him alone?’

‘No problem,’ McCoy assured him. He turned to a tray where an array of hypodermic needles were already laid out. ‘A dose of this will sedate him,’ he said, picking one of the needles up. ‘Knock him right out until he’s on the table.’

He locked eyes with Spock, and saw the Vulcan’s comprehension.

‘Just – er – roll up his sleeve, will you? Left arm.’

The guard quickly complied, and McCoy touched the needle to Spock’s arm, feigning sliding it in. He was standing on the opposite side to the guard, and the man did not see the fluid trickling harmlessly down Spock’s arm.

‘Catch him!’ McCoy said urgently as Spock did an expert impression of fainting, and the guard caught the limp Vulcan in his arms.

‘Right, get these cuffs off and get him onto the table,’ McCoy said quickly. Sooner or later, surely, medical attendants would be coming into the room and he had no certainty that they would not identify him as an imposter.

‘You want I should strip him?’ the guard asked as he hoisted Spock onto the table. He undid the cuffs and pulled Spock’s arms out from under him.

Spock, to his credit, gave no reaction, but McCoy said a little too hastily, ‘No!’ He calmed his voice at the guard’s quick look and said, ‘No, I can manage, thank you.’ He began to close the restraints over Spock’s arms and legs and said over his shoulder, ‘You can leave us alone now, guard. I’ll be fine.’

The man gave him one doubtful look, and then turned and left the room. Instantly McCoy released the loosely fitted restraints and tapped Spock’s shoulder.

‘You can wake up now, Spock. We’re alone.’

Spock opened his eyes and sat up, a breath of definite relief pushing out between his lips.

‘Do you have a plan, Doctor?’ he asked in an undertone.

‘None at all,’ McCoy said honestly, ‘but there’s sure to be attendants in here soon. Do you know where the others are?’

‘They were taken back to the cells,’ Spock told him. ‘Doctor, do you have a communicator?’

McCoy opened the medical bag and looked inside. ‘I do,’ he said doubtfully, bringing it out in his hand, ‘But there’s a high risk the frequency will set off their intruder alarms.’

‘It won’t matter,’ Spock said, ‘provided we can get to the captain and the others and arrange immediate beam out.’

He took it from McCoy and slipped it into the pocket of the loose coverall he was wearing.

‘Provided we can get to the captain?’ McCoy asked with a muted laugh. ‘Oh, that’ll be a walk in the park!’

Spock pressed his lips together. ‘I did not imply it will be easy, but we must move quickly. You have a weapon?’

McCoy patted his pocket. ‘A revolver,’ he said.

‘Draw it,’ Spock said concisely.

‘What about you?’

Spock raised his hands. ‘I have these.’

He moved over to the door, saying softly, ‘Aim your gun at them. Try to look as if you will use it. I will render them unconscious.’

He pressed his ear to the door briefly, then pushed it open, saying crisply, ‘Remain still, gentlemen.’

The two men in the anteroom froze, their eyes widening with sudden comprehension. McCoy held the gun toward them until Spock slipped about behind them and applied a hand to their shoulders. The two men slumped and Spock dropped them without ceremony to the floor. McCoy winced at the thud as one of the men’s skulls hit the floor. For all his apparent stoicism, Spock was quite capable of making his disdain felt at the way he had been treated.

‘And now?’ McCoy asked.

‘We move,’ Spock said, swiftly removing the guns from the felled men. ‘We stop for no one, and we find the Captain, Mr Solo, and Mr Kuryakin. We must not kill,’ he said as he opened the door to the corridor and looked out warily. ‘We cannot risk the disruption to the time flow. But we must look as if we are quite capable of killing.’

‘I can do that,’ McCoy said grimly, shifting the weight of the gun in his hand as they stepped out into the empty corridor.

Spock looked left and right, then took off at a swift, silent run. McCoy followed him, thanking fate that it was early in the morning and the place was still relatively empty.

‘You think we’re going to be lucky all the way down?’ McCoy asked, panting a little as he followed Spock.

‘We can hope,’ Spock said.

They were lucky for the first few corridors. They met a patrol of two men in the next one, and Spock effortlessly rendered them unconscious while McCoy held the gun on them, just as he had the first time. By the time that they burst into the cell block they had left six unconscious bodies behind them, and the doctor could barely believe they had managed it without an alarm being sounded.

‘Jim,’ he hissed, seeing Kirk’s face behind the bars of the closest cell.

‘Behind you,’ Kirk snapped, and McCoy spun to see a guard bearing down on him.

Without thinking he whipped out with the butt of the gun and struck the man over the head. He dropped like a stone.

‘I don’t think the keys are here,’ Kirk said urgently.

‘That first guard took them,’ another voice said, and McCoy turned to see Solo and Kuryakin in the cell opposite.

‘That will not matter,’ Spock said. He slipped the communicator out of his pocket and flipped it open. ‘ _Enterprise_ ,’ he said crisply. ‘Emergency beam up for five individuals within a five metre radius of my position.’ He turned to McCoy, saying, ‘They will not have time to turn on their security systems,’ as the golden sparkle enveloped them and the dull grey walls of the cell block dissolved around them.


	7. Epilogue

Epilogue

 

Illya had the distinct feeling that he had been knocked unconscious or subjected to some strange drug, and was just coming around. He stood rooted to the spot, blinking, taking in the light grey walls and bright lights and red accents of a room he had never seen before. A moment ago he had been looking through the metal bars of a Thrush holding cell.

‘What – was that?’ he asked eventually, daring to move enough to look sideways at Kirk.

He was standing on a disc in the floor. Kirk was standing on an identical disc, and he could see the others in their party out of the corner of his eye. For a moment he thought that Napoleon was transfixed by the experience too, until he realised that in fact his friend was staring with unabashed admiration at a woman that was stepping out from behind some kind of computer console, her blonde hair lashed up in a high, futuristic beehive and her red dress covering barely an inch of her long, shapely legs.

‘That, Mr Kuryakin, was our transporter,’ Kirk said with an easy grin, turning to him. ‘And that, Mr Solo,’ he added, looking at Napoleon, ‘is a woman.’

‘You, ah, don’t say,’ Napoleon said, sounding rather stunned.

‘Yeoman Rand, what are you doing on the transporter?’ Kirk asked, turning to the woman.

A slight blush rose to the woman’s cheeks. ‘Well, I – er – expressed an interest to Scotty in training for the transporter, sir,’ she said diffidently. ‘Begging your pardon, but I don’t want to be a yeoman forever.’

‘No, of course, Yeoman,’ Kirk said, sounding disconcerted. He turned back to the U.N.C.L.E. men, smiling apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I can’t have you leave this room. You’ve seen enough of the future as it is. Can you give us safe co-ordinates for beaming back down, somewhere near your headquarters?’

Illya looked around at the small room and the red doors a little way off to the left. Part of him wanted to see through those doors, but another part of him was quite satisfied with the complications and technology of his present life. Thrush and its evils were almost irrelevant to these people of the future. The small battles of earth’s past must seem like small things indeed. But to him and Napoleon opposing Thrush was their entire working world. He didn’t want to see things that would push that conflict into obscurity.

‘Well,’ he said, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘I’m quite happy to go no further than this, even if Mr Solo would like to stay and find out about women of the future.’

Solo’s attention flickered reluctantly away from the woman, and he cleared his throat. ‘Just legitimate research, Illya. Legitimate research. I need to know how to move with the times.’

‘The coordinates?’ Illya prompted him.

‘Ah, yes. Can you show us a map of the area?’

The alien Spock stepped smoothly off the transporter platform and to a flat, thin screen at the side of the room. A couple of seconds touching buttons, and a contemporary grid plan of that area of the city was displayed on the screen. Napoleon wandered over and studied it.

‘Yes, just there,’ he said, pointing. ‘It’s an alley just off the street. No one ever goes down there.’

‘That’s perfect,’ Kirk nodded. ‘Spock, will you input the coordinates into the transporter?’

Spock glanced over at the red-clad woman who had been there when they materialised, and said, ‘I think that Yeoman Rand is perfectly capable.’

‘I’d invite you back for a coffee,’ Napoleon said, his face turned toward Spock but his eyes shifting towards Rand, ‘but considering what happened last time, perhaps it’s best not.’

‘I am quite content to stay here,’ Spock said with what Illya thought could be considered deep feeling, considering his normal impassivity.

‘If you’d step back on the transporter,’ Kirk said, gesturing towards the round discs in the floor. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. This has all been very illuminating, and I certainly appreciate your help.’

Illya nodded as Napoleon offered out a hand to the spaceship captain from the future. Then Solo joined him on the transporter, and after a moment the sight of the room began to dissolve around him and resolved itself as a dirty, graffiti-scrawled wall and a number of dumpsters.

Napoleon shifted slightly on his toes, and looked around.

‘I suppose that all _was_ real?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t get knocked on the head and imagine the last twenty-four hours?’

‘Only if we both got knocked with the same thing,’ Illya said with a smile. ‘I must say, that wasn’t an average day’s work.’

‘Not at all,’ Napoleon agreed. He sneaked a look at his watch and said, ‘Well, I promised Elaine from Weapons that I’d treat her to brunch. I think I’m just in time.’

‘Nothing changes,’ Illya murmured as they turned toward the street. ‘Nothing ever changes.’

******

‘Well,’ McCoy said airily as they left the transporter room. ‘The little green man from Mars lives to fight another day, eh?’

Spock regarded him coolly. ‘There will not be life on Mars until the colonies there are established in 2103,’ he said. ‘And I do not believe that any of my ancestors have ever lived there.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Kirk said soothingly, holding up his hands. ‘Spock, our weapons are still in the U.N.C.L.E. safe. Can you do something about that without requiring us to beam down again?’

Spock nodded succinctly. ‘Once the security fields are off full alert it will be quite possible to locate the devices and beam them up. It’s entirely possible that beaming such a small mass out of the place won’t interfere with their security systems at all.’

‘Good,’ Kirk nodded. ‘And we have everything else?’ he asked, patting his pockets. ‘Communicators, tricorders?’

‘All accounted for,’ Spock nodded as McCoy held up his own devices.

‘And isn’t there something else you need to do, Spock?’ McCoy asked, glancing sideways slyly at the Vulcan as they walked down the corridor.

Spock’s eyebrow rose slowly. ‘I do not believe so, Doctor,’ he said, ‘unless you are referring to the necessary debriefing, but the captain will organise – ’

‘ _Thank you_ , Spock,’ McCoy said with emphasis. ‘I thought you might like to say _thank you_ to me for saving you from a twentieth century butcher who was going to dissect you alive on the table.’

Spock’s eyebrow climbed still further. ‘Yours was the only logical course of action, Doctor. Had you allowed the vivisection to proceed you would have risked altering the future as we know it.’

McCoy’s snort of disdain filled the corridor, but it was quickly overshadowed by Kirk’s laugh as he reached out and put his arms about the shoulders of both men.

‘Mr Spock, it’s good to have you back, intact and just as logical as always,’ he said. ‘And Bones – let _me_ thank you – you broke me out of that place as well as Spock. Well done.’

The doctor grinned, bouncing a little on his toes as he looked between Spock and his captain.

‘Well, at least someone around here appreciates me. I was considering beaming back down and asking to join the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, but I might keep the day job after all.’


End file.
